


Come My Darling, Homeward Bound

by Becky_Blue_Eyes



Series: Becky's Rhaenys Fantasy AUs [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A LOT of people die in Ch 20, Alienation and lack of choice, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar Won, Anti-Rhaegar Targaryen, Bittersweet Ending, Civil War, Dornish Water Magic, Elia Martell Deserved Better, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, F/M, Female Character of Color, Grey wind is a good boy, High Fantasy, Jon Snow is Aemon Targaryen, Jon Snow is Not Called Aegon, Jon Snow is a Good Sibling, King Rhaegar Targaryen, Lyanna is a very complicated character, M/M, Magic, Mild Sexual Content, Multi, Multiple character deaths in battle, Queen Lyanna Stark, Rhaegar is a Bad Father, Rhaenys Targaryen Lives, Rhoynar, Robb Stark is a Gift, Romantic Fluff, Shireen is Stannis and Cersei's daughter, Stepmother-Stepdaughter Relationship, The Battle for the Dawn, The song is from Frozen II, Themes about living in a badly blended family, We stan Rhaenys and Elia in this house, Women Being Awesome, Women In Power
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:00:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 22
Words: 136,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21838618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Becky_Blue_Eyes/pseuds/Becky_Blue_Eyes
Summary: “…where the north wind meets the sea, there’s a river (a mother) full of memory……in Her waters, deep and true, lies the answers and a path for you…”In a life where Rhaenys Targaryen lives where her mother and brother don’t, Elia’s song of the river resonates in her battered heart. And in that river, all is lost, all is found, and all the world trembles beneath her feet. AU where Rhaegar wins at the Trident, Lyanna lives to raise her children, and Rhaenys unlocks a secret.Robb/Rhaenys, Rhaegar/Lyanna, Aemon (Jon)/Shireen, Viserys/Asha Greyjoy/Qarl the Maid, background Daenerys/Margaery, Arianne/Aurane Waters, etc. Not Rhaegar friendly in the slightest.Lyrics of “All Is Found” copyright by Kristen Anderson-Lopez and Robert Lopez from the Frozen II soundtrack.*Chapter 13 has been rewritten, see author's note for details*This story is finally complete!
Relationships: Arianne Martell/Aurane Waters, Benjen Stark/Catelyn Tully Stark, Daenerys Targaryen/Margaery Tyrell, Domeric Bolton/Sansa Stark, Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Monford Velaryon/Lysella Targaryen, Robb Stark/Rhaenys Targaryen (Daughter of Elia), Roslin Frey/Edmure Tully, Shireen Baratheon/Jon Snow, Viserys Targaryen/Asha Greyjoy/Qarl the Maid, brief Jon Snow/Ygritte, implied Arya Stark/Brienne of Tarth, past Eddard Stark/Catelyn Tully Stark, past Jaime Lannister/Elia Martell
Series: Becky's Rhaenys Fantasy AUs [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1886038
Comments: 318
Kudos: 247





	1. The Song

It’s been five-and-ten years since her death, but Rhaenys remembers her mother’s voice best.

When the storms of Dragonstone would shake Rhaenys out of her bed and make her head ring like crashing bells, Mama would sweep her into her arms and sing. Sometimes she would sing in the common tongue about six maids in a pool and a princess in a tower. Sometimes she would sing in High Valyrian like Father, songs of dragon riders and distant lands. And sometimes, when Father was gone and Aegon was only a little baby in the cradle and Mama was so quiet, she would sing in Rhoynish.

Her favorite was the song about the river. Mama’s voice would echo in the high ceilings of her chambers, sweeter than any bird or bard Rhaenys has ever heard since. Not even Father’s harp could compare, and Rhaenys felt safe and loved in Mama’s arms. And when she would settle against the warm heat of Mama’s heart, Mama would brush Rhaenys’s hair with her fingers and sing about the river.

_Where the north wind meets the sea_

_There's a river full of memory_

_Sleep my darling, safe and sound_

_For in this river all is found_

Mama would rock her slowly like a boat on the river. Rhaenys had yet to see a river for herself at age three, but she could imagine it: the ocean illuminated in a rainbow of color, stretching towards mountains on the horizon that promised adventure. It was a comforting almost-dream in Mama’s arms.

_In Her waters, deep and true_

_Lie the answers and a path for you_

_Dive down deep into Her sound_

_But not too far or you'll be drowned_

Mama would sometimes blow a raspberry into Rhaenys’s cheek after that line, and Rhaenys would giggle. Then she would burrow deeper into Mama’s arms until the scent of her jasmine perfume would cloud around her and ease her into sleep.

_Yes, She will sing to those who'll hear_

_And in Her song, all magic flows_

_But can you brave what you most fear?_

_Can you face what the river knows?_

Then Mama would lay her to sleep in either Rhaenys’s bed, or in her own when Aegon would cry and Father was gone and the walls were a deep red and unfriendly. Rhaenys would dip into dreams of magic, of unicorns and dragons and princesses with flaming swords, and a river that stretched on forever.

_Where the north wind meets the sea_

_There's a Mother full of memory_

_Come my darling, homeward bound_

_When all is lost, then all is found_

Even now, when Rhaenys is eight-and-ten and nearly a woman grown, she remembers this song and how Mama would sing. She cloaks herself in the sweetness, in the tragedy, to shield what remains of her heart. It is all she has, when she can’t even remember the last day her mother and brother lived.

She was there when it happened, or so her Northern-style governess once whispered to her. But no one speaks of it, of the terrible fate Princess Elia Martell and little Prince Aegon suffered while Prince Rhaegar was at war and Lyanna Stark in her tower. No one even dares whisper her mother’s name.

If she could, she would ask her uncles Oberyn and Doran, but she hasn’t seen them since she was four. They were so angry at Father, and they fought in a terrible argument that made the walls shake with their rage. Lyanna cried, Aemon cried even when he was just a tiny baby like Aegon was, and Rhaenys couldn’t breathe. Fear coiled Rhaenys’s heart and squeezed until she hid sobbing beneath her bed, sobbing for her Mama who is gone and will never come back. After that night, Oberyn was banished from Westeros, and Doran left for Sunspear and stayed there. He would send letters every moon, along with Arianne and Rhaenys’s other cousins, but she fears that Oberyn is long dead.

And ever since that day, Father never makes true eye contact with her. So Rhaenys cannot bring herself to ask him about her mother, because she cannot bear to taint the song in her heart with the truth of why Elia and Aegon’s bones lay in the Sept of Baelor.

Instead she does arithmetic, and archery, and the most delicate and intricate needlework required for her clothes. Lyanna joins her sometimes for archery and it’s one of the few things they enjoy together. She is…mostly at ease, around her stepmother. Enough to call her Lyanna instead of Your Grace, which is more than Lady Catelyn can bring herself to do around her own good sister. And if now and then she catches Lyanna staring at her like she’s hideous, and if now and then sometimes she wants to claw her eyes out so she doesn’t have to so much as think about the woman who tore her family apart, at least Lyanna can be kind. Lyanna discusses books with her and weaves flower crowns with her and cares about her as a person.

Father does not do the same, not for Rhaenys nor her dead brother, but he does for her half-siblings and it makes her hate him.

He spends his time either with the Aemon and the twins or locked in the library with Arthur Dayne and a host of enabling sycophants. On those days Rhaenys would sit in the Great Hall with the Hand of the King, Jon Connington, and watch him rule Father’s kingdom for him. Sometimes he would ask for her opinion on a ruling and she would give her honest answer, and Rhaenys wonders if he genuinely respects her thoughts. She knows how much he hated her mother when she lived, and how she looks just like her mother. But she is the only one to take part in these audiences, as Aemon’s passion is in swordplay and Visenya and Lysella prefer to ride their horses through the kingswood. So maybe that matters.

She also wonders if Father has replaced her. He has his three heads of the dragon—she knows that he left her mother for prophecy. She doesn’t know what the prophecy means, as he only speaks to her to ask where her siblings are. But walls have ears, and she listens to Lyanna and Father in turns scream and fuck and scream and fuck. Lyanna cannot forgive Father for his prophecies, whatever they are, and Father cannot forgive Lyanna for all she is not. Prophecy put them together, and Rhaenys wishes it would pull them apart as long if it means fighting would finally stop. They wail as much as they laugh and Rhaenys prays to the Mother and to the river in the songs that she may never have a love like the Silver King and his Wolf Queen.

She prays for a love like her uncle Viserys and his wife Asha Greyjoy, or like her cousin Arianne and her husband Aurane Velaryon. Viserys was promised to Arianne to apologize for the sins done against Dorne, but Viserys and Arianne were best suited to be bosom friends and conspirators. Viserys was the one to convince Father to legitimize Aurane Waters as a favor for Viserys’s loyal friend, all so Arianne could marry her secret sweetheart when the time was right. And when Viserys fell in love with the last Greyjoy during her “fostering” at King’s Landing. Arianne returned the favor and helped him elope with his flint-eyed lady. Father tried to drag them to the Sept of Baelor to annul the marriage; they eloped on a one-way longship to Essos, while Arianne married her Aurane with his brother Monford’s blessing.

Viserys and Arianne are reckless and headstrong, and bold to defy their king, but they are happy. Content year after year in their letters to Rhaenys. They are not allowed back in the Red Keep while Father still rules, but they can send her letters and she cherishes each one. All the while Rhaenys prays that Father will not marry her to Aemon, nor Aemon married to Visenya and Lysella.

Aemon is a good brother, quiet and serious and burdened by the shame of what his parents did to the realm. He will make a good king one day if he will let himself. He is already a great swordsman, and sometimes he teaches Rhaenys the footwork involved so that she may defend herself in case of pirates or drunk lords with grasping hands. He is more protective of her than he is of the twins, Ser Jon to Lady Nessa in their come into my castle games. And Rhaenys’s heart breaks when she thinks of why he thinks her most deserving of protection in a castle where her family was murdered. Most of all, they both have dark hair. Rhaenys cannot help but love him.

Visenya and Lysella are both as lovely as their aunt Daenerys with silver-gold hair and ivory skin. Visenya’s eyes are a vivid indigo like Father’s and Lysella’s eyes are a silvery grey like Aemon’s. They are half horse, half whirlwind, half scandal and half Valyrian shieldmaiden. Only their cousin Arya Stark can match their muddied hems and disastrous needlework and habit of running away from the boring parts of being princesses of the blood. And it is known that the Starks never dare to let their daughters run too wild when Rickard and Brandon Stark are dead, and Eddard Stark is moldering at the Wall. But even when Rhaenys must compensate for their missing work in the Princesses Charity, she cannot help but love them. They are open with their love for her, and she is so tired of feeling unloved.

She wishes she was as close to Daenerys, but Daenerys is fostering at Highgarden with the Tyrells. There is talk of marrying her to Willas Tyrell, or maybe to Aemon, and maybe Daenerys has no time for her niece when she is courting multiple destinies. At least in their letter correspondence Daenerys is sweet and always asks about Rhaenys’s health, but there is a distance between them that reminds her of how Lyanna looks at her in the sunlight and how Father will never say her mother’s name. Perhaps she knows the things Father will not say to Elia Martell’s living ghost. And yet, and yet, Rhaenys cannot help but love her anyway.

When the weather allows, she takes the twins and Aemon down to the Blackwater Rush where it’s safe to swim in the shallows. She dips her feet in the water and sings songs about the river, in the common tongue and High Valyrian but never Rhoynish. She is too afraid to sing her mother’s song to Lyanna Stark’s children, in case it will upset her mother and brother’s ghosts. But she sings in her heart, and the river water is always pleasantly cool and clean and never sweeps the twins away. The river knows what she cannot bring herself to say.

She cannot bring herself to say her true thoughts ever, not when there is so much festering beneath the surface. Father does not love her beyond as a piece of his prophecies and may have already replaced her. There is too much unanswered-for pain between herself and Lyanna to have a true relationship. And as much as she loves her siblings and aunts and uncles and cousins, they do not sing to her. They do not truly know her. They are not her mother, and they are not her brother who never got to live and will remain a filthy secret stinking under the Red Keep.

She is alone, and she is lost, and she does not know how to fix it.

Rhaenys would have lived her entire life like this, wilting and fading in the oppressive shadows of the Red Keep until no one remembered her. But then one day, she overhears Father and Lord Jon talking in the Great Hall. She lingers behind a pillar and listens.

“Bringing the Ladies Sansa and Arya Stark to Kings Landing would suit better than sending the Princesses Visenya and Lysella to Winterfell, Your Grace.” Lord Jon is correct, and the twins would appreciate companions other than the Crownslander ladies. Aside from Rhaenys, they have no true friends, and Rhaenys fears they may be lonely.

“I won’t send Rhaenys alone to Winterfell,” Father says, and Rhaenys freezes on the spot. “She has too much of her mother in her—she’s delicate, Jon. She’s not strong enough for the North alone.” Rhaenys presses her lips together, but she does not feel the urge to cry. No, she knows that Father never loved her mother. And she knows that she is the image of Mama. The same black hair falling in loose ringlets to her hips, the same warm olive skin, the same nose and lips and slender frame. Only her eyes, bright and blue like Good Queen Alysanne and the Blackwater, is what she keeps from her dragonblood. She closes those Targaryen eyes and focuses on quieting her breaths.

“I know, Your Grace. I had my own doubts. But even with her mother’s blood, you underestimate Princess Rhaenys.” This is what makes her want to cry. As if her mother’s blood is a fault, a defect to be overcome. No one ever says that about Aemon and the twins. “If she will be the future Lady of Winterfell, I don’t doubt that she will succeed. Taking her sisters with her will just add unnecessary chaos, perhaps if their mother taugvht them how to carry themselves with grace—”

Rhaenys leaves as Father and Lord Jon argue. Lady of Winterfell. He would marry her to Robb Stark, the only son of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully before Eddard was sent to the Wall and Catelyn remarried to his brother Benjen. To be wife to the future Lord Paramount of a kingdom a third the size of all Westeros is no bad fate for a princess. But she imagines the North, frozen and cold like Lyanna’s eyes after a vicious fight with Father, and she claps a hand over her mouth. Is that to be her fate? To freeze alone there, forever unloved, until they bury her in the snow? “Mama,” she asks the tapestries lining the walls, “is this what you would have wanted?”

Mama does not answer, and Rhaenys wonders if she truly expected an answer or if her mind is finally starting to crumble like her spirit. She heads to the river alone, watching the sun reflect off the bright blue water in fractals that burn her eyes. Rhaenys wants to be like the water beneath the sun, filling herself with light. Washing herself away down to Blackwater Bay and far away to Essos where Viserys and Asha still roam in banishment, and the Rhoyne still tumbles to the sea. Yes, the river Rhoyne, the river in the songs that her mother would sing, and the river Rhaenys shall never see in her life.

There are rivers in the North, but they freeze over, and Rhaenys’s blood goes cold at the thought. So much water, constrained into ice. Like a princess constrained in a castle, like a mother constrained into ash and bones. Tears finally spill down Rhaenys’s cheeks. Father will not let her go to Dorne while her uncles still live, so she will have nothing of Mama to bring with her North.

All she has are the songs. So, she kicks off her shoes and stockings, hikes up her kirtle, ands wades into the water. It is bitter cold around her legs, just like the tears dripping off her chin. Rhaenys sobs, just the once, and sings the song about the river, in Rhoynish. She can imagine Mama’s arms around her, the scent of her jasmine perfume, the heat of her heart. Her voice rings just like Mama’s did, and the river water is as warm as Mama, smells like Mama, is Mama. For a moment, Mama is here and Rhaenys feels safe.

_“…where the north wind meets the sea, there’s a river full of memory…”_

Rhaenys turns towards the voice but all she can see is the sunshine reflecting off the river. The sunshine, reflecting all the way across the Bay and the narrow Sea to Essos, then up towards the North. Even in the frozen North, there is sunshine and flowing water, and Rhaenys wipes at her eyes.

_“…in Her waters, deep and true, lies the answers and a path for you…”_

She sees a dark haired, olive skinned woman, tall and proud—she sees Mama walking along the riverbank. And where she goes, the water ebbs and flows with her, pulling Rhaenys ahead.

“ _…yes, She will sing to those who'll hear, and in Her song, all magic flows…”_

Rhaenys can hear Mama, hear herself, hear Her singing and she follows the voices to the source of the river. The river contracts and floods, like the beating of a broken heart, and in turns the river is full of fish, of corpses, of ice, of gold. Rhaenys touches the water and rainbows pool beneath her fingertips like blood, and she hears wolves howling beneath the surface.

_“…but can you brave what you most fear? Can you face what the river knows?”_

Darkness gathers at the horizon far to the North, and Rhaenys is afraid of what she cannot see. She cannot see, yet she knows that there lies destruction. Death, of her and everyone else. Everything shall die and be destroyed if that darkness comes past that horizon to the living world. But she can still hear the river song, and she can still feel the warmth of the water around her body. She says, “I can if I must.”

**_“…come my darling, homeward bound…”_ **

The light flashes, and then Rhaenys is sitting on the edge of the river. She feels a pull to the east, to Essos, to the Rhoyne, and knows that everyone will die if she does not go. It is only then that she pities Father; if his own prophecy carries the same weight, she cannot imagine the pain of lingering in a library and doing nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s the first chapter of this “plot bunny”/my current Sisyphean project. I blame the soundtrack for Frozen II being entirely too perfect for ASOIAF lol 
> 
> In this story, Rhaenys has olive skin, black hair and blue eyes. I decided on blue instead of violet because a) I wanted her to be separate from her other family members who have either brown (Arianne and Elia), indigo (Rhaegar, Visenya and Aegon), purple (Daenerys and Viserys) or gray eyes (Aemon and Lysella), and b) I wanted her to have river blue eyes because Plot™. My general face claim for Rhaenys is Sara Moatamid, Miss Morocco 2012. 
> 
> Note: Lyanna and Rhaenys have a very complicated stepmother-stepdaughter relationship with good parts and bad, and she's not intended to be 100% evil or good in this story. Take that as you will; Rhaegar's definitely King Asshole though.
> 
> Tell me what you think in the comments!


	2. The Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas from Japan! Sorry this took so long, school just ended and I've been super busy grading assignments lol

Lyanna comes to her chambers, knocking softly before entering. The royal family keeps to Northern standards, so there are no septas or crowds of ladies. Instead, Rhaenys has the quiet company of her governess Gwyneth Bardwell, Ser Jonothor Darry of the Kingsguard and her old cat Balerion. The twins share a cluster of ladies to keep the Crownslanders happy, and a few boys are fostered/held hostage with Aemon, but Rhaenys is rather alone. She is accustomed to it, and the quiet sounds of Kings Landing lilting in through the windows.

Lady Gwyneth leaves to give them privacy. Balerion stays purring in Rhaenys’s lap, the dear old cat rather enjoying his retirement. And Ser Jonothor goes to stand at the door. She prefers Ser Barristan Selmy to Ser Jonothor; Ser Jonothor to Ser Oswell Whent; literally anyone to Ser Arthur Dayne. She can hardly remember him anymore, but she loved Ser Jaime Lannister most of the Kingsguard. Tall with golden hair and green eyes, his voice always laughing around Rhaenys and Mama, telling Rhaenys that she was the loveliest princess in the world just like her mother…but he died with Mama and Aegon. When King Aerys’s pyromancers failed in a wicked trick, and torched the entire Great Hall with the king, Mama, Aegon, Ser Jaime, and the pyromancers with them. Only Rhaenys lived, by virtue of playing with Balerion in the kitchens. If only she had done something, if only the river song knew how to turn back time so she could save them all.

Lyanna sits next to her, startling her from her dark thoughts. She says in a stilted voice, “Rhaenys _…_ your father is going to marry you to my nephew Robb Stark the second the boy can get to Kings Landing.” Rhaenys flinches and Lyanna hesitates before laying an unsure hand on her shoulder. “I know, it’s very quick and entirely unfair to not let you know. I doubt he was going to tell you before the public announcement,” Lyanna rolls her eyes and Rhaenys agrees with her irritation, “but I didn’t think it right that you didn’t know. It’s never right for a father to sell their daughters away like a prized horse without so much as a warning…”

“Thank you,” Rhaenys says. “I overheard him and Lord Jon talking—”

“That pompous bastard,” Lyanna says and Rhaenys can’t help but laugh. Then cool silence stretches between them, and Rhaenys doesn’t know what to say so she says nothing. Lyanna sighs and looks far wearier than her thirty years. “I…I know I haven’t been the best stepmother to you. Or much a stepmother at all, in truth. But I hope you will find happiness with my nephew. From what his mother and my brother Benjen say he is a good lad and honorable. Is there anything you’d like to know?”

Rhaenys wrings her hands. Despite their fights, Lyanna still holds Father’s ear and cock with favored hands. Maybe she can help Rhaenys fulfill her new purpose. “Do you think he would like to travel with me? I wish to see Essos before I go to Winterfell, I hardly ever leave the Red Keep.” She sighs. “I know it’s not every orthodox, but maybe if we travel together, I could get to know him outside of being a princess and Lord of Winterfell. It would be an adventure.”

Lyanna’s gaze softens to something like sadness, or pity. “I had my own adventure, but it didn’t end well. But maybe yours will.” She stands up and Rhaenys does as well, carefully shifting Balerion into her arms. “I will speak to your father about allowing this trip, and to my brother and good sister. Do you have somewhere in mind in Essos?”

“I think Braavos would be nice. And I’d like to sail the river Rhoyne too.”

Rhaenys holds her breath that night, unable to sleep with the river song rushing through her veins calling her east. She goes the royal sept to pray to the Seven, then to the godswoods to stand in front of the weirwood heart tree and shiver, then to the river where the water is as warm as soup. She watches the sun rise, she takes an overly long bath, she spends extra time braiding gold threat into her hair, she jumps on her squealing sisters’ beds, Rhaenys does everything she can to busy herself.

Lyanna comes with her answer at noon meal. She nods at Rhaenys and says, “Your father agreed to your little adventure. You don’t even need a Kingsguard babysitting you. Do bring us all back something nice.” And Rhaenys can finally breathe.

At the announcement ceremony that evening, Rhaenys learns of her fate. Robb Stark, his mother and uncle-stepfather and sibling-cousins, and other prominent Northern lords will come in three weeks’ time. He will be officially declared Lord Paramount of the North, ending his uncle’s regency. Rhaenys and Lord Robb will marry first in the Sept of Baelor and then the royal weirwood. Then they will go to Braavos and sail down the Rhoyne to before returning to Winterfell. Rhaenys smiles and waves to the cheering court with her best princess smile. Later, she flails about with the twins and listens to them daydream about their own future romances across Westeros and Essos. Visenya wants to see the Black Walls of Volantis for herself, and Lysella wants to race a Dothraki horse lord across the Great Grass Sea. Rhaenys can only think of the river, of how her body sings for it.

But when the excitement dies down, Rhaenys’s stomach curdles like milk poured into wine. She will be married before the moon is over. She’s been of proper age to marry for two years now, and there have been quicker weddings, but it’s so soon. Will Father let Uncle Doran and Arianne come to the wedding? Will Lord Robb despise her on sight? Rhaenys wants her mother.

The three weeks are spent preparing for the wedding. Rhaenys knows the fashions of the Crownslands and greater Westeros, but she wants a Dornish wedding dress. But when she asks Lyanna and Father about it, Father’s face constricts. Oh. Lyanna whips her head around and stares at him like she’s shocked. Rhaenys presses her lips together and curtseys, before leaving to hide in the gardens and take deep shuddering breaths until the urge to scream and tear Father’s heart out through his neck passes. It’s fine. It’s fine. She shouldn’t have expected it any either way.

In the end, Lyanna and Rhaegar have another vicious fight within earshot. When the twins hear through the walls that Father may forbid their favorite and only older sister from dressing as she dares, they raise all seven hells. They throw goblets of wine at the walls that shatter like blood, they rend their hair and dresses, they scream like shadowcats in the lonely hills. It’s obscene, it’s embarrassing, and all the courtiers gossip about the king’s unruly daughters. And it works. Rhaenys still winces at the choice words they had for Father, accusing him of being a shameless craven for not allowing Rhaenys her Dornish heritage when Lyanna’s dress was all Northern, of being a man with no decency or honor on his firstborn’s wedding, a fiend and a fool above all else. Rhaenys hears the festering heartbreak beneath those words and cries at night. No, Father doesn’t only mistreat Rhaenys, does he? Not even his children with Lyanna have his love, and when they scream for Rhaenys they scream for themselves too.

But now she has free reign to design whatever dress she desires. Rhaenys asks the army of seamstresses making her dress if she can make something for the twins that is both Northern and Dornish. They gracious comply despite being so busy. Visenya and Lysella shall be dressed in silver and orange, silk from Sunspear and moonstones from White Harbor. And they make a gold and orange sash for Aemon to wear, that Rhaenys embroiders with little dragons and wolves. Lysella runs her hand over the dress and says, “It’s so pretty. I can’t believe you’ve found a dress I don’t hate on sight.” Then Rhaenys points out how the dress’s petticoats are bloomers in truth, so the twins can run and jump as fast as they dare, and Lysella hugs her tight. “I hate to lose you to the North, Rhae. Senya and I will come visit every moon, just you see.”

Rhaenys smiles and pulls Visenya into the hug. “I never have doubt in you two.” For all her anger towards Father and awkwardness around Lyanna, she can never regret having her sisters.

Her dress has a Dornish style kirtle with a snug bodice and voluminous skirt, made of fine pearly white silk and embroidered with gold thread and orange Myrish lace. The outergown opens at the front, cinches at the waist and is made of red silk. The red itself is hardly visible under the rainbow of gems: garnets, rubies, sunstones, citrines, aquamarine, sapphires, amethysts and opals of every shade. Whenever Rhaenys spins the sun catches her dress and refracts rivers of colored light on the walls. And finally, a mantilla veil of white lace so fine she can see clear through it. When she tries on the finished dress for her siblings, Aemon declares her the loveliest bride in all of Westeros. Rhaenys believes her when she sees her reflection in a mirror and her heart sings with delight.

On the evening before her wedding, Aemon gifts her a dagger made of Valyrian steel. “I doubt you’ll have much of need of it with my cousin,” he says in his quiet, serious way. “But you’re my sister, and I want you to be safe and happy.” He looks forlorn in the growing moonlight. “Will you be happy? If you aren’t, tell me at once and I’ll come for you.”

Rhaenys kisses his cheek. “How could I be unhappy with my gallant knight protecting me?” Aemon mumbles about having yet to take the knightly vows and Rhaenys pulls on his hand. “Come, let’s go get the twins and go for one last swim. I fear this may be my last chance to dunk you into the Blackwater.” Ser Barristan Selmy, the Kingsguard shadowing her that day, makes mention of the arriving Northern party but Rhaenys ignores him. For once, she wants to be selfish.

Then there is the wedding. Robb Stark arrived when Rhaenys was playing come-into-my-castle in the river with her siblings, so she shall meet him at the sept. Now that he’s installed with all his titles, they can have as much pomp and circumstance as Father’s official wedding to Lyanna.

Happy is the bride the sun shines on, and the sky is a clear and bright summer day. Rhaenys wonders why she is not happy. She will go to the river and answer its call when the wedding is over, her siblings are so excited for her, all the realm is here to see their one and only daughter of Elia Martell wed…and she weeps into her basin of icy rosewater.

Father even let Uncle Doran, Arianne and Daenerys come for the wedding, and she still is devastated hours before she is to be wed. “Mama,” she sobs into her hands, “I need you. I can’t be married when you’re gone, it isn’t fair, I can’t do this, I can’t…”

She inhales, exhales, splashes her face with water until the redness around her eyes goes away, and sighs. She hasn’t had her mother in fifteen years, not when she first learned to ride a horse and fire an arrow and write her first poem in High Valyrian and have her three-and-ten year old heart broken by Tyrion Lannister. Her mother is not here, and she will survive anyway. She no choice but to.

She keeps the river song in her heart as she dresses in her wedding gown. As Lady Gwyneth arranges opals in her hair, as the twins give her a crown of roses to wear atop her gauzy mantilla, as Lyanna gives her the heavy Targaryen maiden cloak and Aemon offers his arm in escort to the open-roof carriage. As she makes eye contact with Arthur Dayne and Jon Connington and they flinch away. As she walks towards her future and the end all at once.

The Sept is overflowing with smallfolk and nobles, cheering for the princess who sponsors orphanages and motherhouses and apprenticeships. Cheering for the Dornish Dragon, the Sun Dragon, the Dragon Princess, every cheer for dragons and about dragons. She only hears a cheer for Elia Martell’s daughter from Arianne and Aurane, standing proud and bold near the sept’s entrance, and it brings tears of near joy to Rhaenys’s eyes.

Father helps her out of the carriage, still not meeting her eyes. Rhaenys cannot bring herself to ask him why Robb, why the North, why not tell her. Instead she says, “Don’t let me fall.”

“Of course, sweetling.” His voice is heavy and smothered with melancholy. Is he sad to see her married and gone? Does he remember her mother? Or is he just sad as always, as Rhaenys has always remembered him? He holds her arm in his and they walk into the Sept; the iciness of his touch sets her anxiety on edge.

She looks at all the faces inside, at the windows and frescoes and statues. She is afraid to look at her bridegroom. There are singers behind the altar, and their voices flood over the crowd until they are silent. Light catches in her gown, and refracts over the guests, those frescoes and statues. Light refracts over her siblings, looking so excited for her; over the high lords and ladies who seem both pleased and envious that someone has married into the royal family; over the solemn face of Tyrion, who Rhaenys didn’t think would come and she is both happy and sad for it.

Light refracts over Robb Stark, and Rhaenys sees him for the first time.

He is tall, redheaded and blue eyed. Tully blue eyes, as bright as her own but lighter in hue, and quite lovely. Indeed, everything about him is quite lovely—the broadness of his shoulders, the shape of his hands and jaw, the thickness of his eyelashes, the way he holds himself up not with boasting pride but with good grace and nervousness—he's nervous. It makes Rhaenys smile and relax. He is nervous too. He doesn’t know her either.

They can be friends, if she will let herself.

She stands in front of him, and the High Septon begins. She doesn’t hear his words, for the rushing of the blood in her ears drowns out all but the sound of her heart crying for her mother. And Robb looks terrified when he holds up his Stark grey and white cloak. What does he hear beneath the septon and the singers and his mother weeping in the crowd?

Rhaenys’s maiden cloak is removed, and for a moment she is nameless. Houseless. Would she be happy if she would evaporate on the spot and materialize somewhere else with no name and no tragic bloodline? Rhaenys closes her eyes and imagines her mother in her spot. Where Elia went, her daughter may follow.

Then Robb cloaks her, and Rhaenys pledges her troth. She is his, and he is hers, from this day to their last. He kisses her with soft lips and Rhaenys wishes that she had the time to know this husband of hers. At least it is pleasant. Then the crowd cheers in an uproar and Robb whispers, “I'm honored meet you, my lady wife.”

“I’m honored to meet you as well, my lord husband.” He takes her arm, mindful of the gems and lace. Rhaenys looks at him. “Tell me, am I doing this right? I don’t suppose you’ve done this before.”

He laughs and it’s a pleasant sound. The wedding at the weirwood is more quiet and severe, with no cheering smallfolk and seven singers and crystals mounted in windows. Rhaenys asks the weirwood if they will let her happy and she receives no sign. But the river sings, her voice stretching all the way from the Blackwater, and Rhaenys decides that if the old gods shall keep their distance it’s no matter to her. The Seven hardly do much either, and there are rivers and springs in the North that will be Rhaenys’s comfort.

The wedding feast is far merrier. All the high lords in the land and their major vassals have come to see the eldest Targaryen princess wed. Rhaenys accepts homage from her wedding guests, dances a cold dance with Father and a far warmer dance with Aemon, and lets the twins fill her plate from the banquet. Daenerys comes to give her a kiss on the cheek and a wish for happiness and health, and Rhaenys gives her the same. Daenerys looks far happier and spirited than the sad pale girl who left for Highgarden years ago, and Rhaenys is glad for that. She makes sure to spend time with the Tyrells to let them know how much she appreciates them drawing Daenerys out of her shell. She wishes that she had been able to go to Highgarden too, instead of being kept in the Red Keep, or that Lady Margaery with her sweet wit and smiles could have come as a lady companion. Daenerys and Margaery link arms as they talk, and Rhaenys envies them their closeness. 

When she finally has time, she throws herself into her Uncle Doran’s embrace, melting into his sandalwood scent. He and Arianne hold her close and Rhaenys babbles about everything and nothing to have happened, and they never stop her or tell her to quiet herself. Uncle Doran wipes the tears from her eyes and says she’s as beautiful as her mother on her wedding days and wishes her true happiness. Then Arianne holds her hands and they talk as if they’d never been parted in their youth. “You’re with child?”

“Yes, we thought to give our Saria a little brother or sister. If it’s a boy we’ll name him Luceryn, and if a girl Doreza.” Arianne pats her rounded stomach. “And it cannot come a moment too soon, whoever named it “morning sickness” ought to have named it “every damned day of my life” sickness.”

Rhaenys has a husband now. She will have children eventually and inevitably. The thought makes her wring her hands, and she pushes down the unsettled energy. “How is your little girl, Arianne? I didn’t see her at the sept, she’s as short as her mother.”

Arianne pinches Rhaenys’s arm for her cheek. “She was with her cousins. There they are now with Lord Stark’s youngest.” Arianne points out her daughter Arianne, niece Laena and nephew Monterys indeed playing a complicated clapping game. Aurane watches them to make sure that their clapping games doesn’t turn into a cake thieving game. Arianne says, “I’m surprised you didn’t hear Monty say that Saria ought to steal your wedding veil so they could use it for their toy ships.”

Rhaenys giggles at the thought of the infamous Martell-Velaryon gang stealing all the ladies’ favors to fashion themselves a ship to sail to Essos with. Aurane took it upon himself to work with his brother to create a fleet for Dorne that could match Nymeria’s ten thousand ships, and now both Dorne and the Crownlands benefit from trade with the Summer Isles, Pentos and a kingdom in far Sothoryos called Maali said to be made entirely of gold. Rhaenys wonders if even Rosario, only four years old, has been to Essos while Rhaenys has never stepped a foot outside of Kings Landing. Perhaps they have met Viserys and Asha. If they weren’t still on their voyage to Asshai-by-the-Shadow, of course.

Uncle Doran excuses himself to speak with Benjen Stark, who is far kinder than she expected from a man whose family was torn apart by Father’s love for Lyanna. She watches them speak with serious expressions, and Arianne sighs. “I never thought your father would let you marry, my little sunbeam.” She rests her chin on Rhaenys’s shoulder. “You must tell me everything about your husband when you come to know him. I won’t have my darling cousin suffer in a cold marriage bed.”

Rhaenys squeaks and Arianne laughs. Then the twins drag her away so she can have her first dance with her new husband. And Robb is a good dancer; his mother is the soul of courtly grace even in the North and must have trained him. She has so many questions to ask—what is it like having his uncle for a stepfather? Does he ever miss Eddard Stark? Does he resent being the older brother of four siblings? Rhaenys cannot imagine having that many younger siblings all living at once. And she cannot imagine what to say that is proper and wifely, so she says what first comes to mind: “You are quite tall, my lord husband. I am unsure if I like that.”

Robb smiles with his hands warm and steady on her waist. “My sisters hardly appreciate it either. And please call me Robb, my lady wife. I do not intend to lord over you.”

“Call me Rhaenys then, Robb.” She raises an eyebrow. “Although I intend to be your lady. I hope you are accustomed to bathing every day, and to going over household sums, and to being interrogated by my siblings at sword point whenever I lament about your Northern stoic ways.” He laughs that lovely laugh and Rhaenys feels warm. “I jest of course. I hardly know anything about the North even though my stepmother hails from there. Could you tell me what Winterfell is like?”

“Winterfell is larger than the Red Keep, although not as ornamented.” He leads her off the dance floor and to their seats of honor, so that Rhaenys may try this Northern ale that Aemon swears by. It’s…interesting. He grins at her expression. “Yes, we like our ale and mead as opposed to wine. And the tourneys we have are melees, and the clothes we wear are made of wool and leather, and our castle is huge and gray and rather dull from the outside. The gods forbid if you want a permanent mummer’s troupe.” Rhaenys snorts and he carefully puts his hand on hers. Her hand fits in his like a pearl in the shell. “But in the morning when the sun rises over the snow, it glitters like moonstones. And hot water flows through the walls so you’ll rarely be cold in Winterfell, and Mother has commissioned an entire closet of cloaks and furs for you in case you are. And we have our songs, and our sport, and now we have a princess. I hope you will be happy in the North with us.”

Rhaenys wonders if she can come to love this Winterfell in this frozen North. His hands are warm, so she is willing to believe his heart is just as warm. To be had and held by an entire kingdom, no longer in the shadow of Father and the war that killed her mother and brother, is a fantasy that could be real. She squeezes his hand. “I hope so too.” He blushes and she tries on a smile she learned from Arianne and Asha. “And what if the cloaks and furs aren’t enough? How would you keep me warm?”

He opens his mouth, and then the music changes to _The Queen Took Off Her Sandal and The King Took Off His Crown_ and Rhaenys’s stomach contracts into a tiny ball filled with terrified energy. She’s never kissed a boy since her doomed affection for Lord Tyrion, all she knows about sex is what she hears coming from Lyanna’s chambers and from Arianne’s sordid tales about Aurane. A crowd of grinning and laughing men surround her, as a crowd of women surround Robb. The bedding ceremony is when they rip her beautiful dress to shreds, and Rhaenys wants to spit in fury. None shall touch her dress! Not after the work put into having it! But then Aemon pushes through and sweeps her into his arms. He truly is her gallant knight, and she tells him so when he runs to the wedding chamber with her dress safely intact.

“I meant what I said earlier, Nessa.” He kisses her cheek. “And I put the dagger in the bed stand.”

“Thank you, Jon,” Rhaenys says and they both quietly laugh at their childhood nicknames. No lonely Princess Rhaenys and Crown Prince Aemon, only Lady Nessa and Ser Jon exploring the Red Keep looking for dragon eggs and Aegon’s ghost. She does not miss her sad childhood, but she will miss having her brother at her side. Not even the Kingsguard, shadowing and smothering her steps, could take that from them. She enters the wedding chamber with the giant bed covered in pillows and pours herself a glass of wine. It’s spiced strongwine. Possibly from the Arbor, and so incredibly smooth. She carefully takes off her wedding dress and hangs it in the closet, undoes her wedding braids and all the opals until they are safe in a bowl on the dresser, and sits on the bed in her shift. She sips the strongwine, then drinks the whole cup when the silence stretches for too long and her heart will beat out of her ears onto the floor into the fire in the hearth. She drinks the better part of a second cup to give herself something to do.

The sound of raucous laughter and suggestions that make her cheeks burn sound through the door before Robb falls in. He’s only in his smallclothes and one woolen sock on his left leg. He stares at her, she stares at his mismatched legs, and then she laughs. She laughs until tears roll from her eyes, and she tries to explain herself. “Pity you, for one sock lost is a sock never found again. And it’s so absurd, to lose your sock on your wedding night when I am about to lose my maidenhead.”

Robb fidgets, and they listen to Aemon and the twins telling the assembled crowd outside their door to make themselves scarce unless they wish to test their might against Aemon’s sword. He sits by her on the bed and asks, “Do you want to have the bedding tonight? I don’t need to.” Rhaenys sniffles and his eyes widen. Does she scare him? “Not that I’m saying that I wouldn’t want to—of course I would, you’re beautiful—but you’re also my wife and I am to honor you—and I don’t want to—to pressure you into doing something that—”

She kisses him. She kisses him twice, and says in a soft voice, “No one’s dared to come near me in years.” The only one who dared is now hundreds of leagues away with a wife of his own. “And I fear that not even my lord father loves me. Do you think that one day you could come to love me?”

Robb looks so sad in the firelight, then determined. He holds her hands up to his lips and kisses them, and Rhaenys shakes with how much warmth fills her body. Filling her like sunlight in the river, refracting her heart on the walls. “The only woman I shall love is the woman I am pledged to. Perhaps not today, yes, but I shall. I am yours, if you would have me.”

Rhaenys places their hands on her heart. “Could you tell me about your family, Robb?” She invites him to lie down with her in the bed. She lost her physical maidenhead to her saddle years ago, and Father is ever loathe to acknowledge Rhaenys’s womanhood so she doubts they will be hanging her bloodied sheets in the foyer tomorrow morning. She can always cut the side of her arm and blame it on an archery injury. No, she’d rather not worry about the sheets and the consummation, but rather getting to know his new husband of hers. Lyanna and Father are a dreadful warning of what may happen when lust is favored over reason.

Robb settles against her side. He is warm, and Rhaenys doesn’t know why she expected Northern men to be made of ice rather than flesh. She imagines a future where she is always warm and sunlit by his side, and she shivers. He pulls up another cover atop them, and grins when Rhaenys squirms around like a toddler before she is settled. He asks, “What would you like to know?”

“To begin, how can you stand having three younger sisters?” He laughs and the bed shakes, making Rhaenys laugh too. “Younger sisters are vile in the morning when we all need to use the bathing chambers and none of them have any sense of urgency. Aemon is better only in that he bathes at night, and he lingers there for near an hour as well.”

He has four siblings: Sansa, Arya, and twins Edwin and Branda. Sansa is as perfect a lady as Rhaenys and does all the embroidery on her handkerchiefs and dresses. She is also skilled at the harp and bells, and at hawking in the woods around Winterfell, and takes audiences in Winterfell’s own Great Hall when Robb, Lord Benjen and Lady Catelyn are occupied. Robb hopes that she will marry a Manderly who can be a proper husband to a proper Northern lady, or that she may start her own cadet line of Starks.

Arya is as wild as the rumors say, but also sharp-minded and the best at arithmetic than the rest of her siblings. She is also very curious, and self-taught herself High Valyrian just so she could read books in the library that even their maester passed over. Rhaenys offers to teach her more of her mother tongue and Robb says Arya would be entirely delighted. Then Robb whispers that she resents being compared to Lyanna every time she tears a dress or plays with the tenant’s children, so she plans to go to Essos one day and make her name there.

Edwin had a wild streak a few years prior, and there’s not a tree nor tower in Winterfell that he hasn’t climb. Robb says that he nearly died once falling from a rotting tree branch in the godswoods into a cold winter spring. They thought him dead, but someone saved him and placed him by a weirwood tree for Lord Benjen to find. Now he is in turns mischievous as always, and quite grave for a ten-year-old boy. Lord Benjen wants to see if Moat Cailin can be restored, if another castle should be raised, or if Edwin should be Winterfell’s castellan.

His twin Branda in contrast is a cheerful and lighthearted girl who loves throwing axes and helping Robb and Lady Catelyn around the keep with all their duties. If negotiations with House Umber are successful, Branda will marry Lord Umber’s youngest son Ned and start a new Stark cadet branch. Robb hopes that Branda will stay near Winterfell after she is wed with land of her holding.

His voice is soothing, and Rhaenys drifts off listening to him and what a lovely family he has. They lie side by side, but eventually come to rest with Robb’s chest against her back, and his arms around her waist. She wakes up a few hours later like this, and wonders if she likes it. It is so strange to be held so intimately by someone who aren’t her siblings sharing her bed during a thunderstorm. Rhaenys inhales, exhales, and relaxes into his touch. His chest rises slow and sure against her back, like waves and the tide. Rhaenys asks the river if this is where her path should lead her, to a husband who says he will come to love her. She closes her eyes and dreams of her mother brushing out her hair, saying she loves her, saying she knows her, saying she is so proud of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More world building! I promise the plot will kick into gear in the next chapter, but I needed Rhaenys and Robb to marry before they go to Essos. This story is gonna be around 10-15 chapters long, and the river itself won’t appear until three more chapters or so.
> 
> Realistically it would be near impossible to arrange a royal wedding in three weeks, but in truth Rhaegar betrothed Rhaenys to Robb about two months prior and didn’t tell his family about it. I know why he’s like this, but what a jerk. All his children hate him for one reason or another and it’s pretty justified lol
> 
> Robb is Ser Dreamboat™ in this story; it’s slowburning for now because Rhaenys at the start of the story is rather closed off with revealing her inner heart but rest assured that this will be a happy Robb/Rhaenys. I’ve had my fill of romantic angst, and the angst in this story comes from somewhere else.
> 
> I’ve based Dorne and Dornish culture on Moorish Spain/Al-Andalus, but it’s hard to find good primary sources for what their fashion was. So Rhaenys’s wedding dress is a takchita, a formal and beautiful Moroccan dress similar to a kaftan. Her wedding veil is a mantilla, a Spanish lace veil traditionally worn with a comb but here worn with the flower crown that her sisters gave her. The embroidery and sewing on the jewels on Rhaenys’s dress should’ve taken way longer than three weeks but eh let’s just say that army of seamstresses worked fast.
> 
> Arianne’s daughter Rosario is named after her mother Mellario. Luceryn would be Lucerys (Aurane’s father) + Oberyn, and Doreza would be Doran + Loreza (Doran, Elia and Oberyn’s mother). Smooshing names together makes it easier to honor people lol


	3. The Gifts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm uploading this a day earlier (I want to keep to every Wednesday if I can) since tomorrow is New Years and I'll be hiking up Fushimi Inari Taisha before dawn to watch the sun rise. I take my "first shrine visit of the year" very seriously lol so Happy New Years Eve!

The next morning, Rhaenys opens her wedding gifts with her family and good family. She and Robb sit at the head of the table, with Lyanna and Father at the other end. Aemon and twins sit on her right side along with Daenerys, Arianne, and Uncle Doran. On Robb’s side are his mother, uncle, and siblings. Already Arya and the twins are fast friends, while Aemon and Sansa sigh together about having to corral them before their mothers break out the wooden spoons. At least sweet little Branda is making conversation with Lyanna, since the rest of the Starks seem to avoid her like greyscale.

From Lyanna and Father are a set of silver hair combs inlaid with moonstones; gloriously illuminated books about the history of the North and the Starks; and a goldenheart bow from the Summer Isles. Rhaenys runs her hands over the smooth wood and the book covers and gushes out her thanks. It is the best gift she’s ever received from them. She tells Lyanna so and her stepmother’s eyes well up with tears.

From her new good family she receives an entire trunk of woolen gowns and fur cloaks that are marvelously soft to the touch; a velvet dress so finely embroidered that Rhaenys herself is envious of the skill and is surprised to hear that Sansa did all the embroidery herself; a set of sturdy leather riding boots and breeches; and a carved weirwood quiver with a full set of arrows. “Lya told us you have a passion for archery and riding,” Lord Benjen explains with kind eyes, “and we wouldn’t have our Robb’s wife shooting down elk with shoddy arrows.” Rhaenys is touched by their gift. In her family, only Lyanna has taken an actual interest in her archery, so maybe it is a Stark tradition?

From Aemon she already has her dagger, but he and the twins also gift her a leather-bound book full of poetry; a delicate necklace of alternating sapphires and rubies carved into little suns; and matching silver hair pins. They look like winter suns, and she has Robb immediately hook on her necklace while she adds her hair combs and pins. They don’t exactly match, but they are lovely, and his hands are warm on her neck and Rhaenys hasn’t smiled this much in a long time. Lysella teases Aemon that at least one of them has an eye for gifts, and Aemon agrees that Visenya does.

From Daenerys, and by extension the Tyrells, are a silk fan painted with dragons of every color; a saddle with a Reach style riding horn so that Rhaenys can ride quickly and jump on her horse even when riding side saddle; a cask of Arbor Gold to “keep her company in a land of ale”; and finally a letter that Daenerys tells her to open in her own time. Rhaenys thanks her, hoping that they will be able to be friends now that they both will be away from the Red Keep.

From her governess Rhaenys receives a set of books detailing how to run a noble household and all the common and unique problems that come with running a castle. The books are thick with detailed diagrams inside and her stomach sinks with nervousness at becoming Lady of Winterfell. She can run a charity but apparently, she knows nothing about running a household by herself. But at least that’s what the books are for. Rhaenys checks the authors and to her surprise there is a G. Bardwell in the author’s listings. Lady Gwyneth winks at her and Rhaenys hopes to do her dear governess justice.

Then are the gifts from her mother’s side of the family. Arianne gives her a dozen ornate perfume bottles, each smell flooding Rhaenys with vague memories of when she visited Dorne as a toddler. Three of them are jasmine, and she swallows a lump in her throat; now she has her mother’s scent to take with her North. Something of Mama, at last. Arianne smiles at her and her cousin knows what a precious gift she’s given her. Robb holds her hand and squeezes it, and she wonders if he understands the sudden tears in her eyes. From Aurane is a swift ship of smaller size in Blackwater Bay that will take her to Essos then the North where it shall remain in her possession. It’s called the _Sun Maid_ and Aurane says that it’s built to also sail in major rivers; Rhaenys could kiss him. And from Uncle Doran is a heavy tome about the history of Dorne, with some chapters already bookmarked for her to read. “You should know your history,” he says in a grave tone. “I don’t doubt that it will serve you well.” She shivers slightly when she runs a finger down the book’s spine and the river song in her heart sings louder.

Gifts from other prominent lords and ladies are presented as well. Mostly jewelry; fine textiles to make clothing from; silverware and porcelain. It’s not so bad, since she enjoys these soft and lovely things, and she will make good use of them in Winterfell where she suspects she’ll need to layer up. Robb’s gifts are far more practical. A nameless Valyrian sword from Father to make another Stark heirloom; a pair of bred horses from Lyanna that match the power of the North with the swiftness of Dorne; hunting gear and weaponry from Rhaenys’s siblings; a giant gilded tapestry of the Northern mountains from Daenerys; and Dornish spears from the Martells along with scrolls on proper footwork techniques. His other gifts are much of the same, and he grins at Rhaenys. “I’ll never need boots again,” he jests. “My lady wife is spared a lifetime of cobbling and darning.”

“Bold of you to assume I won’t be stealing half of those, my lord husband. They look quite comfortable.” Robb and his siblings laugh and Rhaenys sees the approval in Lady Catelyn’s eyes. At least her good mother doesn’t despise her on sight. The poor woman is known in the south as the Thrice Bought Trout, even though she never married Brandon Stark and Eddard Stark was sent to the Wall due to supporting the Rebellion. Does she blame Rhaenys for Father’s actions? For her grandfather’s? She wouldn’t blame her.

The breakfast passes with lighthearted conversation between everyone, although Rhaenys sees that Uncle Doran will not speak to Father and Lord Benjen is extremely awkward around Lyanna. She is spitefully happy that Father is not in his element, and she pities Lyanna. She cannot imagine ever being estranged with Aemon, or with Aegon had he lived. But he is dead, Lyanna is queen, and Rhaenys is Lady of Winterfell. The gods were never fair in their jests and Lyanna made her choices years ago.

Rhaenys looks out the window, where the Blackwater Bay glitters under the sun. In three days, she will sail for Essos. In three days, she will leave the Red Keep and her family behind and only return for weddings, coronations and deaths. In three days, she will truly be a married woman, no longer the unwanted daughter of a forgotten first wife. She closes her eyes and focuses on the river song. It sounds just like her mother, soothing her fears in their dim chambers while the Rebellion raged. What she would give for this song to materialize into Elia Martell. To have her mother and first brother again in the flesh so they can come with her and be happy in Winterfell all together.

Rhaenys fakes a sneeze to justify the tears budding at the corners of her eyes. After breakfast she leads Robb and her good family on a tour around the Red Keep. The castle is not as large as Winterfell, as the books say, but she doubts there is a more ostentatious castle in Westeros. Tapestries hung end to end, gilded gold on the ceilings, mosaics inlaid with precious gems—she could scour off a wall’s worth of finery and fund her charity for a year! Perhaps Casterly Rock could match, but it was sacked in the Burning of Lannisport during the War of Greyjoy’s Folly. There are songs about how the Proud Old Lion Tywin Lannister gave his life to kill the Crow’s Eye, Euron Greyjoy. There are very sad songs about that. And Tyrion is a sober man who doesn’t enjoy flaunting the wealth that remains in his family. She wonders if she should arrange to meet with him and his wife Alysanne Lefford, ask about their health…but some things should be left to lie quietly. She is married now and so is he; no matter what friendship they once shared, nothing good will come of seeing him again. Who is she to dig up ghosts?

Later, Lady Catelyn confirms that Sansa and Arya will stay in Kings Landing with the twins. “My good sister mentioned how close you are to the younger princesses and hopes that my daughters’ company will be a balm to them in your absence,” she says arm-in-arm with Rhaenys as they watch Robb and Aemon spar. The Kingsguard are watching them to make sure that no one is truly hurt, and Rhaenys doubts that Aemon would hurt Robb unless Rhaenys tells him to. She hopes he will be knighted sooner than later. The twins and Robb’s siblings are spectating along with Lord Benjen, entirely too enthusiastic about the threat of someone’s sword slipping and cutting off an ear. Since the day is sweltering, neither are wearing much armor, so their ears are fair game. Rhaenys fans herself and Lady Catelyn with her gift to keep her hands busy. She had already seen the muscles coiled beneath Robb’s skin on their wedding knight, but to see him wield a sword…her eyes dart between Robb, Aemon, and the Blackwater behind the castle grounds. She leaves in three days which both stretch and squeeze into impossible times around her throat.

Lady Catelyn sighs softly. “It will hurt to let my girls go south, but Sansa was made for court. And it will do good to refine Arya before she marries, or elsewise.”

“Before she joins my uncle and good aunt in Essos, sailing the seas and battling pirates?” Rhaenys smiles and Lady Catelyn looks like she needs a glass of wine. A flagon, perhaps. “My stepmother will take care of them, and the twins are already friends with them. And my brother Prince Aemon won’t let anything bad happen to his cousins.”

Aemon wins the spar, much to the twins’ joy and Arya’s groaning. Not that Robb didn’t force Robb to work for it, no, her new husband is quite the warrior. She imagines him wielding two swords once he grows into his body, or perhaps that new nameless Valyrian steel sword, and he already has the reach for a spear. The thoughts make her flush. Rhaenys licks her lips, then quietly asks, “Do you know what Robb likes? In a lady? I wish to be a good wife for him,” and to her horror she’s mumbling the last part. Her governess would rap her fingers with a ruling measure if she had heard her!

Lady Catelyn smiles and pats her arm. “I asked myself the same question when I married Robb’s father.” Eddard Stark, the man who had such a lovely son and never got to raise him. Above most others, Father has much to atone to him for. “And when I married Ben, I was so afraid that he would resent me for our sad history.” She stares at something Rhaenys cannot see, perhaps a memory. “It took me a year to feel like I truly knew him, and only because I let myself be open with him. To allow my heart to him.” Rhaenys flinches and fans herself harder to disguise her sudden terror.

Catelyn turns back to her. “Be open with him, my princess. Honesty, and good humor, and kindness, will do you wonders in a marriage. I doubt you need to do much else, he’s already rather smitten with you.” Rhaenys covers her blush with her silk fan. Thank the gods for Daenerys and this present! “And with your trip to Braavos and the Rhoyne, I’m sure you’ll find out yourself what he likes in a lady, and you in a lord.”

What does she like in a lord? Rhaenys ponders this question as the _Sun Maid_ is loaded for their journey. First to Braavos, then down the Rhoyne. Rhaenys is unsure if they should brave rumors of pirates to sail all the way to Volantis, or to stop along the way and have the ship towed to Pentos on the famed dragonroad. She traces a map with her finger and her nerves tingle. From the Upper Rhoyne to Ghoyan Drohe, to Ny Sar, to Chroyane; cities she has never seen and yet shares blood with. Homeward bound, indeed.

She spends her last days in the Red Keep spectating the tourney hosted in her marriage’s honor; cuddling Balerion; walking with Arianne and Uncle Doran through the gardens; and sewing with Lyanna and Lady Catelyn who make strained conversation like an ill-tuned fiddle. Arianne has advice for Rhaenys’s marriage as well, mostly whispers in her ear that make Rhaenys wonder if her heart will leap out of her heart into the Blackwater. Aurane’s advice is much more practical: sleep with two beds pressed together and two sets of blankets, so that if her lord husband rolls over in his sleep, she can evade his crushing presence. Or, more likely, so Rhaenys won’t restlessly fidget against him until he snaps and flees to Essos.

She carefully avoids Tyrion and his wife, although she eagerly meets Shireen Baratheon. She is beautiful, with long black hair in coiled braids and stormy blue eyes, and entirely the shape of her mother. Even the thin white scar down her left temple and cheek, caused by a brigand trying to kidnap the heiress of Storm’s End, only adds an interesting edge to her loveliness. Her parents Stannis Baratheon and Cersei Lannister want nothing to do with the Iron Throne more than required as vassal lords, but Rhaenys always thought Shireen to be bright-minded and an absolute joy. Shireen herself is only three years younger than Rhaenys herself at age five-and-ten, so they have much to giggle about. Shireen used to stay in the Red Keep with the twins, until the War of Greyjoy’s Folly, and Father never wanted Rhaenys writing to the Baratheon heir. But in the shade of the gardens she reacquaints with her; she hopes that Father will see reason and marry Shireen to Aemon. Above all else, she would make a perfect good sister.

The celebrations for the wedding are especially amusing, with Lord Denys Arryn of the Vale winning the melee by sheer luck. Ser Sandor Clegane, the strongest of the bunch, had the misfortune of slipping on mud and falling into Lord Denys’s mace. No one is hurt, thankfully, and no one’s pride either after Ser Sandor says that “the cunt with a firm grip on his weapon ought to win the damned golden dragons”. The runner-up’s prize is nothing to sneeze at either so that probably helps.

Rhaenys watches the archery with no small amount of envy, wishing to try out her new goldenheart bow. But it is unseemly for a princess to show up her guests, and she keeps her hands folded nicely in her lap. To her delight, her cousin Quentyn Martell wins by the skin of his teeth against a Marcher archer. Arianne says that Quentyn plans to use his winnings to build himself a new keep for himself and his betrothed Gwyneth Yronwood, although Airanne already has plans for them. “As if I would let my little brother starve,” Arianne scoffs. “It will do well to shut up the Yronwoods anyway, they’re still bitter that my Aurane is far better than any of their pimply sons.”

Robb abstains from the jousting to whisper commentary to Rhaenys and the twins that leaves them cackling. Who knew that the Young Wolf of Winterfell had such a sharp tongue about the defenseless hedge knights in the South? Aemon rides in the joust to defend his sister’s honor but is unhorsed in the end; Ser Loras Tyrell wins and crowns his sister Margaery with a crown of roses and violets. Later, Rhaenys and Arianne see Daenerys and Margaery taking all the violets out of the crown to pin to their dresses and making posies out of the roses to give to smallfolk children. Rhaenys picks the best flowers from the garden to make more posies with, and Arianne ties them all together with gold ribbons. Even Shireen joins in on the fun. The joy in the children’s faces to receive posies from a set of princesses and high ladies is worth cutting up a flower crown.

At night she reads her book about the Starks with Robb, who is pleased at how accurate the book is. “This Maester Wyllis must have stayed in the North,” he says as he traces the book’s spine. “I wonder what a maester in a century’s time would say about me.”

“Do you intend to make a name for yourself?” Rhaenys thinks of all the famous Starks at Winterfell. Cregan Stark and the Hour of the Wolf; Brandon the Builder, the Shipwright and the Burner. So many Brandons, but never a Robb. “Robb the Red for your beard? No, that’s too superficial, Robb the Wise or Just would be a good omen. They already call you the Young Wolf in some circles.”

Robb catches her gaze and holds it. “Robb the Sunkissed, perhaps. Forever known as the lord who brought summer into the North through a dragon princess.”

Honesty, good humor and kindness are things Rhaenys decides that she likes in a lord. And his words, so sweetly spoken. “The Pact of Ice and Fire is fulfilled with us, now. I suppose it’s my duty to bring warmth up with me, so I don’t freeze to death.”

He pulls her into his lap, Rhaenys laughing and squirming as he lists all the ways he shall labor to keep her firewood stocked and forty blankets piled upon her forty mattresses. She hopes the rivers in the North are warm enough to swim in with him. And if not, it is his duty to keep her warm, is it not? She tells Arianne so later and Arianne just throws her head back and laughs.

The day of her voyage, she wakes up before dawn to sit with Daenerys, who is twisting her silver-blonde hair in her hands until its color is a blur of white. Her gaze doesn’t quite meet hers and for a moment Rhaenys seethes; just like Father! But she notices how Daenerys’s purple eyes skitter around like Rhaenys’s does when she’s nervous, and her anger turns to compassion. She doesn’t want to scare her aunt. Daenerys finally sits up straight and says, “I wish to be friends, Rhaenys. As much as I love the Reach and wish to live my life there, there is more to the world than Highgarden. More to my family, as well. If it pleases you, I’d like to come along on your trip to Essos.” She holds up a letter, the same on from her hoard of wedding gifts. “I want to be a true family with you, and our Viserys.”

Rhaenys opens the letter. Daenerys blushes faintly, before mumbling, “Just read it all. I’m sure you already know.”

_To my sweet sister,_

_I am glad that my advice about your Margaery gave you comfort and guidance. I know what it’s like to love, have that love returned, and yet be denied it because of society’s ways. My offer to host you and your Margaery still stands, if you can bare to part from the beauty of Highgarden in favor of my humble ship. Give my regards to Willas and the old dowager and inform them that the Meereenese have no skill in mulling wine and they ought to ship their Arbor Gold east to take over the market there. Both Asha and Qarl swear that the Ghiscari wines here can thin paint and I am like to agree._

_I’m not surprised that King Bastard did not inform our darling Rhae of her impending marriage. When I lived at the Red Keep, he kept her in a glass jar with the lid firmly locked on pain of ruin. But now the jar is opened, and we shall see if this Robb Stark is a worthy keyholder. I write to you from Lys now, but in two moon’s turn we shall be in Braavos. I have a gift for you that I am rather unsure how to send on a raven, but I’ll figure something out. Your older brother is a fool but a determined one._

_If you happen to show our darling Rhae this letter, or if you’d like to sever our correspondence in two and give her this half, I have this to say:_

_To my darling Rhae,_

_Forgive me for not writing back sooner. To send a letter between Westeros and Qarth is no easy task, and it is easier for us to out-sail the plodding Summer Sea mail ships and write to you from a Narrow Sea port._

_I hope that your marriage brings you the same joy that mine own has. I fear that your father may have not told you beforehand of his intentions, as Daenerys only found out through Lady Olenna Tyrell’s spies. And I fear we all know that only Lady Lyanna can convince your father to act contrary to his will, and only half the time. Nevertheless, a marriage can be a curse and a burden, or a blessing that will save your soul. I will pray to the gods that your marriage brings you comfort, health, safety and love. True love is no easy song from a bard’s lute, because it far outlasts those shallow fancies._

_I wish to see you, as do Asha and Qarl. You have met to meet him, but he already considers you a better part of our family. We are headed to Braavos, which is close to White Harbor, perhaps only a week or two away with the prevailing winds. By your word we shall sail for the North and hope that your father does not get it into his head to banish us entirely from the Seven Kingdoms. Or perhaps we shall see you and your groom in the Free Cities? Only if you desire him, of course. If you despise your groom and need a swift rescue from a frozen fate, steal yourself away to Braavos and we shall take you to the Jade Sea and feast the rest of our lives on sweet oranges and pirate bounties._

_With all my love,_

_Your daft uncle Vis_

Rhaenys sets down the letter and wipes tears from her eyes. Her uncle is so close, she will see him in Braavos before any response letter could reach him. What lucky fate this is! Or maybe the river song has pulled Viserys and Asha to Braavos so she can meet them. Rhaenys sends a prayer of thanks to the Seven, to the river and even to the old gods for her fortune.

She turns to Daenerys and smiles, still rubbing at her face. “I’d be glad to take you with me, Daenerys. I only wish Margaery could come along too. She is quite the charmer.”

Daenerys flushes a bright red which makes her eyebrows all but disappear, and Rhaenys bursts into helpless giggles. They both laugh together, tear-streaked and careworn, and the sun rises over them both.

At midday, they set sail. Daenerys and Aemon shall sail with them along with the necessary crew. Father is not pleased to have his only male heir leave Kings Landing, but Aemon somehow convinces him as he always does. Rhaenys crushes a crying Visenya and Lysella to her chest, kissing their foreheads and promising them exotic tales and gifts when she sees them again. She bids farewell to her good family, hugging dear Branda when she asks for one. She is nearly knocked over by Arianne, who is distraught that she cannot go with her while she is with child, and who wishes her joy all the same. She pauses, then hesitantly hugs Lyanna. And then there is Father. She waits for him to meet her gaze fully and breathes when he does for the first time in years. “Farewell, my daughter,” he whispers.

“Farewell, Father,” Rhaenys curtsys as deeply as she can in her plain travelling dress. To her shock, he kisses her forehead. Then he pulls away, and it is time for her to leave. She bites her lip so she doesn’t cry.

Rhaenys stays on the deck as the _Sun Maid_ pulls away, waving to the assembled crowd. Robb is at her right side and Aemon at her left, and she takes strength from their presence. Kings Landing slowly disappears behind them. Rhaenys trembles. She is on her way to the river calling her name. And she fears how long it will be until she returns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear that the giant “Rhaenys gets a lot of nice stuff!” odyssey at the beginning of the chapter has purpose. Not only do some of those gifts become Plot™ relevant later, but I wanted to showcase the underlying themes of alienation and lack of choice: except for Arianne and Doran’s gifts, nothing acknowledges that Rhaenys is equally Elia’s daughter as well as Rhaegar’s. And she doesn’t think anything of it because she’s grown up only hearing about her mother through letters from Sunspear. Robb definitely noticed this too. It’s rather sad stuff when you think about how Rhaenys looks like a Dornishwoman but knows nothing about Dorne firsthand.
> 
> As a biracial woman who had my parents separate (in similar circumstances to Rhaegar and Elia lol) and then got a host of half-siblings and emotional baggage, I’m definitely adding my experiences to this story. It’s possible to have a happy blended family of multiple heritages and backgrounds, like with my mom and stepdad. But it’s also rather easy to mess it up, like with my father and stepmother. Needless to say, Rhaenys’s family isn’t well blended. The deaths of Elia and Aegon do not help at all and will haunt that family until the end.
> 
> And now we’re off to Essos! Rhaenys and Robb are the main characters of this story, but Daenerys and Aemon have a very important part to play as well so that’s why they’re coming along.
> 
> I apologize to any Jonerys shippers who read this story because of my previous one, but in this AU Daenerys and Margaery are girlfriends; both come off to me as bisexual in the books and when I put them together in the same household for this story it just wrote itself. Violets as a symbol of sapphic love has been a thing since Sappho of Lesbos wrote her poetry in Archaic Greece, like how green carnations were worn by Victorian era gay men. Willas and Olenna are aware and protect them from gossip. Aemon will be with someone else, I’m undecided yet. The story will figure it out for me I’m sure.


	4. The Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've finally finished writing the first half of this story, so in the interest of putting out content I'll be posting the chapters I have ready every Wednesday and Saturday. It felt too slow to publish just once a week, and hopefully I'll be able to write the second half of the story with the same speed.

It takes the better part of a moon to sail to Braavos. The _Sun Maid’s_ compartments are cozy, stocked with many cushions and candles, but Rhaenys cannot appreciate them. The closer they sail to Essos, the louder the river song becomes in her blood. She can hardly sleep because of it. At night she paces under the moonlight and prays for swifter wind, yes, but calm seas and skies. Perhaps she cannot have it both ways, but if she could, she would sprout wings and fly immediately to the river. Not even sparring with Aemon can take the edge off her anxiety. She fills the air with stories about Arianne and Viserys, recalling all the ways they scandalized the Red Keep before Viserys eloped with Asha. Daenerys and Aemon take her mania at face value, but she sees that Robb worries for her, but she doesn’t know what to say. At night when they share a bed and Rhaenys stares at the walls, she makes sure to curl against him. He seems to relax whenever they are pressed together, and she doesn’t want him sleepless like she is.

Sometimes they even share kisses when the moon is their lonesome night light and everyone else save the night captain is asleep. It’s so bizarre and so wonderful to have one arm slung over her waist and the other reaching up to tangle his hand in her hair. So warm, so soft, so much electricity sparking up and down her limbs like lightning without thunder. And when she dares to graze his bottom lip with her teeth and the noises he makes echo deep in her chest…it scares her. It scares her how much she enjoys it, how easy it could to lose herself in it. And didn’t her mother lose herself in Father until he ripped the rug from beneath her feet? She cannot bear to loosen her tight grip around her heart, lest she give it away and have it broken. Yet her body yearns for his touch, and every night she daydreams of what Arianne told her about a marriage bed, about how dark his blue eyes become when she sighs against his lips and how she craves that darkness…

Like a dream of its own, Braavos rises from the horizon. She drags poor Daenerys out of bed so they can watch the shoreline crawl ever closer. Her breath leaves in a rush as they finally pass beneath the mighty Titan. It roars, and the roar echoes in the clear blue sky and across the sea and nonstop in her body. Roaring, roaring, her body is roaring because the river is so close, she can taste it in the air. Aemon squeezes her shoulder and she leans against him to keep her balance.

There’s talk of settling in a manse, of speaking with the Sealord of Braavos, and Rhaenys knows she must see out these niceties but her body shrieks for the river. “Just a little more,” she whispers to herself. Just a little bit more; what was one more day compared to a moon? All she must do is be a good princess, sleep in an overstuffed bed with her handsome husband, and then the next day she will meet with her beloved uncle and good-aunt and finally sail for the river. And the Sealord is said to have a wedding present for her and Robb. She would be a most terrible guest to keep an important man waiting on account of a river song no one else can hear.

They step off the _Sun Maid_ in favor of a hired boat. Braavos is beautiful. The air smells of salt and fresh fish, instead of shit and rotting fish. Endless scores of gray stone buildings stretch towards the sky, yet every building is unique in its masonry and design. A city of canals as opposed to horse roads, and Rhaenys nestles between Robb and Aemon as their hired boat drifts down the canal towards the Sealord’s Palace. Robb rests his chin on the top of her head, as if Rhaenys were as short as Arianne, and she pokes him in the thigh. She is not that short! “Winterfell and the winter town look much like this,” he says. “All the buildings made of stone to shield us from the wind, and as many carvings on the walls as the embroidery on your dresses.”

If the North is like Braavos in truth, Rhaenys is already half in love with it. She knows that a city of canals has no place in a land that freezes over during winter, but it is a romantic thought. “Is it true that it snows in the summer? And that heather grows in the meadows, so in the morning they are covered in frost and seem like crystals?” She can imagine it and is hit with a sudden longing for a place she’s never been to.

Robb nods, rocking Rhaenys’s head in the process. “I will show you myself.”

Daenerys smirks at them, and Rhaenys sticks her tongue out. “Please take my darling aunt with you, she thinks the best flowers only grow in the Reach. Is there frosted heather in the Reach, Daenerys?”

“Believe it or not, ice exists out of the North. If you like, I’ll dust all the gardens of Highgarden with frost and send you a painting.” She motions at Aemon. “I’m sure if Aemon broods at a flagon of water long enough, it will turn to ice as well.”

They jest on their way to the Sealord’s Palace, and Rhaenys’s heart is buoyant with happiness and anxiety. The Sealord is a sickly and frail man, but with the sharpest brown eyes Rhaenys has seen aside from her Uncle Doran’s. They spend an hour discussing glass gardens, archery, more trade routes between the Seven Kingdoms and Braavos. Aemon and Robb are fascinated by the water dancers, and Daenerys is eager to see fruits from the Reach on Braavosi tables. Rhaenys keeps her hands still in her lap, her feet firm on the ground, and does not give into the roaring in her blood. Daenerys gives her a sidelong look but says nothing. Then the Sealord sits straighter in his seat and says, “And now for your wedding gift.” He motions for a servant to bring over a lacquered box and runs his fingertips over the lid. “Once, my lady princess, a Sealord long before me swore to a king long before your father that he possessed three lovely stones. And until those stones should ever crack, they would remain in his keeping.”

He lifts the lid, and Rhaenys hears her companions gasp. Inside are three dragon eggs. One is a rich amber flecked with gold and green; another is purple with swirls of blue and white; and the last is an iridescent grey like a mother-of-pearl, changing color whichever way the light hit. And on each egg, there are faint cracks covering their surfaces. The Sealord says, “It seems that they are better suited for a Targaryen princess’s keeping than my own. And while many have tried, only those with dragonblood have ever ridden a dragon.”

Rhaenys understands. Three petrified dragon eggs are a fortune; three dragon eggs ready to hatch are liable to burn down Braavos if the dragons are not killed immediately. Who knows better than Braavos the bloody history of dragons and dragonfire? Rhaenys cradles an egg in her palm and is shocked by the heat seeping into her palm. It’s like a warm soup bowl in her hand, like the river water when she sings. She hands it to Daenerys to see if she is hallucinating, but Daenerys marvels at the warmth. She asks the Sealord, “And I presume that if Volantis or the other Free Cities antagonize Braavos and her people, you would like assistance from your allies?”

The Sealord smiles. “Braavos is ever a friend of Westeros and the Seven Kingdoms, my lady princess.”

In the manse the Sealord has generously loaned them, Rhaenys rests the eggs by the fire. She turns to her siblings and says, “Aemon, you should be the one to write to Father about this. You know him well enough to give him a sign without letting any spies know about the eggs.” Rhaenys’s lips twist into a sneer, thinking about Aemon and Father being close when Father could barely stand the sight of her. But then she smooths out her skirts and her expression. This is no time for jealousy, not when there’s dragon eggs and they’re no longer stone.

“I will,” he says. Aemon pauses, then carefully touches the shell of the purple egg. He recoils and says, “This isn’t natural. I’m sure Father has scoured every library in the Seven Kingdoms, so he should know what to do.” Daenerys gives the eggs a longing stare, and it takes Aemon offering his arm to her to distract her. “I’m going to turn in for the night and drafty that letter. Dany, you seem tired.”

Daenerys murmurs an agreement and they leave. The silence after chokes Rhaenys’s ears and she forces herself not to fidget. Robb looks pensive, and she eventually asks, “Are you cold, Robb? It’s warmer here, come sit with me.”

He sits by her and is quiet. After a few minutes of watching light play on the eggs, he asks, “What did you mean by assisting Braavos? Why would he give you these eggs when he could have three dragons under his control?”

“People before have tried to control dragons. But only Valyrian bloodlines have been successful, it’s why the Dance of Dragons was so devastating to the Targaryens. It was the downfall of my family.” Rhaenys leans against his side. “The Sealord doesn’t want a pretty mantlepiece to turn into a poisoned well. And it is a powerful exchange for both our lands. My lord father gets dragons, proof of Targaryen supremacy, and Braavos gets a guarantee that in a future war between them and Volantis or Lys or whoever else, we will come and roast their enemies alive.”

Robb slowly nods. “And no one would dare attack Westeros with three dragons, unless they were incredibly powerful. Or incredibly foolish.”

Rhaenys closes her eyes against an oncoming headache. Is this the path the river wants her to take? To become a dragonlord of old, roasting lords in their castles and fucking her brother? No. Never. A rebirth for the future, then. And why were the eggs cracking now, after over a century of being stone?

“I never thought I’d see the day,” Robb says. “There’s always been magic in the North, magic and the old gods. But now the magic’s coming back to the rest of the world too.”

_And in Her song, all magic flows_

Rhaenys startles as Mama’s voice echoes in the room, and she understands just a bit more. Robb asks what’s wrong, and Rhaenys is quiet. She makes the choice to trust him entirely and burns in fear, in hope, in her heart’s terrible fragility. She will surely die if he doesn’t understand, if he doesn’t trust her—she must make him! “Robb, I need to tell you why I wanted to come to Essos.”

Robb listens quietly as she explains what she knows. The river in the song is the Rhoyne, and it calls to her to come to its waters ever since she sang in the Blackwater Rush. And the Rhoyne has magic in its water, to call to her. So maybe that magic she hears is the magic returning to the earth and returning to the dragon eggs. “I will only know for sure until we go to the source of the Rhoyne. Where the north wind meets the sea…it’s funny, really. When I heard that I was to marry you, I was afraid I’d hate the North and it would hate me. But the river comes from the north too.” She wraps her arms around his shoulders and his arms wind around her waist. “Come with me to the Rhoyne. Maybe she will sing to you too.”

“Where you go, I follow,” he says. He kisses her forehead and she blushes. She’s still shy with the physical intimacy between a wife and husband, and she doubts she will be entirely comfortable with it until she is settled in Winterfell. Rhaenys bites her lip, then asks if he believes her. If he doesn't, everything shall be ruined. Robb sighs and says, “I admit, this is a lot to understand at once. But I also have something to explain to you too.”

Rhaenys tilts her head and listens quietly as Robb explains what he knows. He and his siblings have direwolves pups at Winterfell, the first direwolves seen south of the Wall in centuries. His own is named Grey Wind, a fierce but loyal direwolf who howls equally at the moon and sun. And sometimes at night when Robb is exhausted from sparring or restless from learning how to be a good Lord of Winterfell from his uncle and maester, he has strange dreams. Dreams of being a direwolf, hunting in the wolfswood or curling up with his siblings by the kitchen hearth. Rhaenys’s eyes widen, and the river song once again echoes with a wolf howling. Her husband is a skinchanger, she has hatching dragon eggs for a wedding gift—and who knows what the river holds in store for them both. “Magic is coming back,” Rhaenys whispers. “The song, your dreams, the dragon eggs, it’s returning. And I think it’s because of the darkness I saw that day in the river. Darkness in the far north, that—”

“—that will destroy everything in its path and raise an army of the undead to conquer the earth,” Robb whispers in return. His blue eyes, so like her own yet on another world of their own, are a thousand different emotions she can’t count. Fear. Worry. Determination. Concern. A softness that Rhaenys feels in her own heart when she looks at him. Robb rubs soothing circles on her back. “Old Nan would tell us stories about the Long Night when we were children. I never gave them much thought, they were just stories—but the stories came from somewhere. And now everyone could be in danger, if this is all true.” He squeezes his eyes shut and she kisses his jaw the relieve the tension there. Robb sighs, and sweeps her into his arms. They fall into bed, curling around each other, seeking warmth. For a while all they do is kiss, and let their bodies unwind through that simple release. He pants against her lips, “Could you sing me this song of the river, Rhaenys? I’d love to hear it.”

She sings it in the Common tongue so he can understand; he sighs like the weight of the world falling from his shoulders. She runs her hands through his thick auburn hair, counting the shivers running beneath his skin. Robb falls asleep and she stares at him. Then she folds herself into his arms, her head beneath her chin and their arms around each other. It’s marvelously warm and she feels safe even with the magic brewing all around them. He is safe, she realizes. He trusts her. She loosens her grip and falls asleep. Rhaenys dreams of heather covered in frost and clear mountain rivers as warm as hot springs, and a great grey wolf howling at the moon. She awakes to the sun and Robb sleep mumbling about not stealing a loaf of bread. Her giggling wakes him up, and they break their fast together with Aemon and Daenerys. Her aunt looks a little pale, but she delights in grilling Robb about every embarrassing story in his past. Daenerys and Rhaenys cackle as Robb defends his past actions of covering himself in flour to scare his sisters but instead scaring their septa and teaming up with Lord Bolton’s trueborn son to dump a cask of rotten fish on the noxious Bolton bastard. Then Rhaenys turns on Aemon, who turns on her, and Robb asks Daenerys about her own follies, and the three white elephants in the room are ignored for a precious time.

Rhaenys is too afraid to leave the eggs in the manse, so she wraps the eggs in one of her dresses and bundles them into the bottom of her satchel. With both Robb and Aemon carrying their swords and Rhaenys hyper-aware of the eggs, she doubts a purse thief will make away with a very deadly treasure. Daenerys looks ill with nervousness, and Rhaenys squeezes her hand. “We will finish our business with the Sealord, and in the evening meet with Viserys and Asha. They will be entirely jealous of the eggs, and we will sail along the coast talking about our joys.” Rhaenys inhales and exhales deeply. “Everything will be fine. You’ll see.”

Viserys and Asha live in their longboat, the _Jolly Kracken_ , with their dear paramour Qarl the Maid, and a crew of Summer Islanders, Qartheens, Yi-Tish and even a woman who hails from the Secret City of Nefer far to the north of Essos. They are docked away from the manse, and the port is a bit crowded. Rhaenys sees Viserys’s long silver hair ahead in the crowd and holds herself back from flinging herself into his arms like a little girl. She was only two-and-ten when he left, she can hardly remember his face—

“Well if it isn’t my darling Rhae,” Viserys says, and his voice rumbles in her chest. He is taller, nearly as tall as Father, and he’s finally grown into his nose. His hugs are just as strong and safe, surrounding Rhaenys with a cloud of spices she doesn’t have a name for. “How could it be? Last I saw of you, I could carry you in my pocket and still have room for market money.”

She lightly kicks his shin. “Try me, Vis. Your wife cannot save you now.” Viserys laughs his deep belly laugh, and Rhaenys turns to Asha. She also has grown into her nose, and with her sharp cheekbones and short hair she looks like one of those legendary sirens: part woman, part bird of prey. Asha flashes a grin at her and Rhaenys wriggles out an arm so she can reach out towards her good aunt. “Mayhaps you could save me instead? I will break in half soon enough and my husband will be out a wife.”

Asha steps up behind Viserys, kisses his cheek and holds a knife to his neck. “I’ll be taking the princess off your hands.” She winks at Rhaenys, who giggles, and at Robb, who seems horrified.

Viserys grins and gives Rhaenys one last squeeze before letting her go. Then he walks up to Daenerys and does the same; Daenerys laughs and flails about trying to escape her brother’s death grip. Asha greets/threatens Aemon, who does his best to emulate a statue were it not for his comment about Asha somehow getting shorter. Robb barks out an incredulous laugh and brushes his hair back off his forehead. He asks Rhaenys, “Is it always like in your family?”

“Only with the ones we like,” Rhaenys says. He looks at her like she’s mad. She hooks her arm in his and leads him towards the _Jolly Kraken_. “And this is them sober, you’ve yet to see my darling daft uncle try and out-drink his wife.”

With all the laughter and noises around them, Rhaenys can ignore the river song just for a moment and breathe in the joy of her family. No Father, no Lyanna, no shadows in a castle—just her loved ones in a city across the sea, and her husband arm-in-arm. If this is what genuine happiness feels like, she hopes she will have a lifetime of it by their sides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, fourth chapter! My word document is 41,000+ words by this point since I’ve finished the first part of the story and the outline for the second half. I’m trying to write this as fast as I can before I lose steam, so hopefully this chapter is up to snuff!
> 
> The party is now in Essos with Viserys and Asha. The Greyjoy Rebellion (The War of Greyjoy’s Folly as it’s known here) was more brutal in this AU than in canon. Extremely so. As a result, when Viserys offered to run away with Asha she took his offer with both hands and never looked back. She won’t be scheming to be Queen of the Iron Islands here since she’s found her happiness sailing the Jade and Summer Seas, but she and Viserys will be important characters in the upcoming conflict.
> 
> The three eggs the Sealord gives Rhaenys are the three eggs that Elissa Farman/Alys Westhill stole from Dragonstone and sold to a previous Sealord about a century before the events of this story. They aren’t Drogon, Viserion and Rhaegal, just to be clear. The eggs are hatching because of magic returning to the earth in response to the Night King, and if left alone they’ll hatch in maybe a year? Three years? It’s hard to say, but it’s very inconvenient. I wonder who will speed up the process and how…


	5. The Talk

After Viserys and Asha tell their crew to see to their personal needs and wants, they gather in the _Jolly Kracken’s_ main compartment. It seems like a pirate ship out of a romance novel, but with far more weapons leaning against the walls and knife marks in the table.

Rhaenys happily acquaints herself with Qarl, who she only knows through Viserys’s letters. He is ironborn like Asha, but when Pyke fell, he was able to escape with another group of boys on a ship to Pentos where he became a dockworker. Then when Viserys and Asha went to Pentos during their elopement, the three came together and that was that.

He is as pretty as any lady could hope to be—truly, she is envious of his curling chestnut hair and his long eyelashes—and as kind-hearted as Rhaenys herself could ever hope to be. Perhaps that’s why Viserys and Asha both adore him, as the three together all complement each other. Viserys and all his drama; Asha’s harsh edges and humor; Qarl and his sweetness. Rhaenys remembers an old song she once heard, about how the Silver Prince desired both the sun and moon as his brides. Lyanna and Father nearly had the bard’s tongue ripped out, and Rhaenys flinches at the idea of Mama and Lyanna sharing Father as if it were an honor to be one of two wives. As if it were an honor to be shamed in front of half the realm over a wreath of roses, and then take that other woman as your wife!

Rhaenys inhales, exhales, and watches Asha flirt shamelessly with both Viserys and Qarl. She rests her legs over Viserys’s, and Viserys reaches out to yank on one of Qarl’s sandy curls. No, it is not at all the same for her uncle and good aunt. It is an honor for Viserys and Qarl to be one of two husbands, for all three to share a love that is freely given and equally given. No one ever mentions that in their songs. And Viserys did say that true love was nothing like a song.

Will her and Robb be like a song and its lies? Will she and he share a love so great that none can tarnish it?

She hears Aemon complain to Viserys about Father’s inconsistent plotting. “One day he’ll consider marrying me to Margaery Tyrell and moving Daenerys from Highgarden to Casterly Rock to seduce a Lannister lordling. Then he’ll want me marrying Shireen Baratheon instead and the twins with Edmure Tully and Jonnel Arryn. Then he’ll bring up prophecy about a dragon with three heads and want me married to my own sisters. I don’t understand why he cannot pick a path and stick with it.”

“I’m afraid my brother was always like this, dear nephew. Never satisfied with anything or anyone.” Viserys takes a long pull from his glass of wine and makes a considering face, before swallowing it anyway. Hardly anything was up to Viserys’s tastes, not even his own curated vintages. “I dare say I didn’t help by running off with Asha. Are there still rumors about King Aerys’s secret edict?”

Rhaenys scoffs. “If you ever came around, you’d know that they’ll always prefer a pliable second son to an unattractive first son’s heirs. I think that Father was actually pleased when you left and took seditious thoughts with you.” She turns to Asha and Qarl. “Do you plan on claiming the Iron Throne and throwing Father into the sea? It’s treason but I’ll turn a blind eye.” She sees Aemon flinch, and regrets her words. Then she drinks more of Viserys’s excellent wine. Aemon knows what they all think of Father, it shouldn’t be a surprise.

Asha smirks, then taps the axe on her hip. “I’ve got my crown here. Whenever I see a door my royal nature cannot open, I put my crown to it and suddenly I’m free to go ahead.” Rhaenys giggles. Asha raises an eyebrow at Robb. “And how about you, Lord Stark? You had the pleasure of meeting King Bastard for yourself—” Rhaenys nearly spits out her wine “—and I haven’t heard you plotting regicide yet. Not even of his little Lickspittle Hand. How honorable of you.”

“We do keep to our Northern honor in my home,” Robb says after a slight hesitation. Rhaenys can imagine why a son of House Stark and the North, the ironborn’s traditional enemy, is awkward around the last daughter of House Greyjoy. Father had the rest of the line wiped out. Even little Theon Greyjoy, just a boy of nine. Robb takes a gulp of his mead. “And it was through that honor alone—and of breaking guest right and becoming cursed like the Rat King—that kept me from shoving the King down all those narrow sept stairs after Rhaenys married me.”

Rhaenys’s eyes widen and Asha cackles. “Shame! But I’m glad you held back, for I wish to be present when the Young Wolf finally bares his fangs.” Asha glances at Aemon and pauses. “But enough about treason for now, the night is still young. You ever had black rice wine from Leng? Let’s see what a Northern man is made of.”

And they drink. They play a silly drinking game from Yi Ti, where they make one of three hand symbols. A fist defeats two fingers; two fingers defeats an open palm, and an open palm defeats a fist. And whoever loses the match must drink a gulp of the Lengii black rice wine, which could raise the dead and kill it again. Robb flushes a ruddy color on his cheeks, and Aemon hiccups at every odd breath. At one point, Rhaenys falls over into Qarl and Daenerys, and they sprawl on the ground giggling and mopping up the precious wine with silk handkerchiefs.

Viserys then breaks out a lute, and with more flamboyance than Ser Loras and a mummer’s troupe put together, he begins to play. He has a pleasant voice, if breathy from drunkenness, and serenades them all with ballads in languages Rhaenys doesn’t recognize. She watches Asha and Qarl join in off pitch, just to make Viserys complain and huff, and she imagines her mother and Father and Lyanna in these positions. Then her thoughts shift, and she sees her mother and Ser Jaime singing. Then herself and Robb. She blinks and realizes that she is actually singing with Robb in truth. And his voice is beautiful; they falter when he notices her staring at them and they both blush.

Daenerys tugs the lute away and demands that Viserys give her the gift he hinted at in his letter. Qarl retrieves a lacquered chest much like the one the Sealord gave Rhaenys, and her heart stops. Almost immediately the warm veil of alcohol recedes, leaving her cold. No, it cannot be…what would the chances be… “We found them in Asshai-by-the-Shadow,” Viserys explains in a soft voice. “One of their tricksy shadowbinders rather forced it upon us, and said it was our destiny to deliver it to a mother with no father, a bride of fire who husbands roses.” Asha and Qarl both snort, while Viserys himself grins. “It’s hard enough as it is to understand a woman wearing a full mask, but we were never suited for lofty prophecy.”

“Still, we thought it best for you, since I myself have two husbands, darling Rhae too has a husband, and the twin princesses are rather spoiled as is,” Asha tells Daenerys. Daenerys carefully opens the chest—lo and behold, three dragon eggs. One black as dragonglass with scarlet ripples and swirls; another is a light cream streaked with gold; and another is equally green and bronze like a broken geode. And just like Rhaenys’s own horde, they are lightly cracked. Rhaenys watches herself as if from a distance collect her eggs from their hiding places and setting them next to the eggs. Viserys, Asha and Qarl boil over with questions, like the frothing of the Blackwater after a storm.

Rhaenys shivers as the dormant river song flares back into life and begs her to seek out the river. She cannot enjoy these dragons, these grim reminders of her Valryian blood that wars with her Dornish blood, and she sees Robb’s body tense with concern. So, while Daenerys and Aemon fill the stifling air with theories of how to awaken dragons from eggs, Rhaenys leads Robb to the deck of the _Jolly Kracken_. All Braavos is awake, and all the lights glimmer against the water in the canals. It takes her breath away into a light fog around her lips. “Will Winterfell be like this?” she asks Robb. “All the lights against the sky, and the snow like the sea?”

“The winter town is not as large as Braavos, and Winterfell is but one castle, albeit a castle half the size of this city. And in the summer, all the fields are emerald green” He stands behind her and wraps his arms around her waist. She leans against him and closes her eyes. He says, “But at night, when there’s not a cloud in the sky, all the stars come to light in every size and color. A sea of them.” Rhaenys imagines such stars that the constant smoke and industry of Kings Landing hides. She could live happily under such a sky, damn the cold. He pauses, then murmurs low in her ear, “When I first saw you walking towards me in the sept, with all those gemstones on your dress shining in the light and your eyes such a dark blue…it reminded me of the night sky. And I thought you were some goddess of the distant North bringing the heavens down to meet me.”

She turns around so that they are face to face. She is close enough to count his dark red eyelashes. So close that she cannot help but see the emotion in his eyes. The affection. The adoration.

The love.

How can he love her when she still clings to her heart with fingers clenched white?

Rhaenys softens against him. “I haven’t been the best wife to you these past weeks. Forgive me.” He tries to argue but she shakes her head. “No, I’ve kept my heart from you. You should know why I’ve been afraid.” She rests her cheek against his shoulder, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against her. “Did you know I used to love someone before?”

“Tyrion Lannister.” Rhaenys nods, clenching and unclenching her hands in his doublet. Robb holds her closer. “He approached me at the wedding. He told me that you were a priceless treasure many men would die to behold, and I should strive to honor you in all ways. That, or perish.”

She smiles past sudden tears. “We were children when we first met. Lord Tywin brought him to the Red Keep to be a companion to Viserys, and to convince my lord father to betroth a princess to him. Rumor was that my lord father wanted Daenerys to marry Tyrion, to placate Lord Tywin but keep the Lannisters far from the throne, but he never told me personally. And Tyrion and I became friends. Best friends.”

“What happened?”

Rhaenys burrows closer to him, and he strokes her hair. The comfort makes her lightheaded. “Lord Tywin saw that we were only getting closer. And while Aemon is the Iron Throne’s heir, I am his heir.” She twists her face. “Oh, not that some people didn’t try to put me behind Visenya and Lysella. Many people hate Dorne though they’ll deny it in flowery half-lies, and I look very Dornish. But there’s also people who think that Aemon is no heir at all. That Lord Stannis Baratheon ought to set his half-barren wife Cersei Lannister aside and marry me, and unite our two, truer claims to the throne.” Like Lord Sunglass, rotting at the wall for daring to plot treason with a sellsword company to install Lord Stannis as king. The poor fool, nothing ever gets past Father and his Master of Whispers, especially not when it threatens his precious son. Rhaenys was slapped by Father for presenting herself as a “conniving woman” who lords could put over Aemon. As if she had any control over that! She inhales, exhales, and continues, “And if not Stannis, then install me on the throne as figurehead with some lord as my husband and true king. When everyone saw me and Tyrion together it made it worse, and the Lord Hand even told my lord father that…that since his marriage to my mother was _inferior_ to his marriage to Lyanna, I ought to go behind even Daenerys. All the better to keep a Lannister away from the crown.”

Robb tenses beneath her. She flinches, worried that she has offended him by mentioning his aunt. Then he says, “That absolute ass. Asha was right to call him Lickspittle Hand, why would he do that?”

Rhaenys shrugs. “He hates my mother even in death. And my lord father hates being reminded that my mother existed. I told you that he doesn’t truly love me.” It haunts her, how easy that is to say, and she hears him inhale. She continues, “They plotted to do away with my rights, and Lord Tywin found out. And he very graciously reminded them that if I was set aside like how my lord father was rumored to have tried to put aside my mother, my uncle Oberyn would come back from the dead and cut him down.” Rhaenys grieves for her uncle and wherever he went, never to return. “He said, _“Who would dare intervene with a ghost’s wrath?”_ and my lord father was furious. But I don’t know how their fight would’ve ended. The Greyjoy war happened, and Lord Tywin died, so that ended that. Tyrion then became Lord of Casterly Rock.”

“And you still loved him?”

“I was three-and-ten. He was my first kiss, in the library. He was all I ever knew. But when he became Lord of Casterly Rock, after the awful way his father died and after his own sister refused to speak to him and kept his only niece from him…it changed him. He looked me in the eye to tell me that he couldn’t love me anymore.” Rhaenys doesn’t like remembering that. Remembering the way her heart shattered like glass, how she was so foolish to not hold it close like the glass ornament it was, how kind Tyrion was. “That he was going to marry a rich and influential Westerlands woman to hold his lands together. Alysanne Lefford.” Rhaenys knows it’s wrong, that she has Robb, but she cannot help but still resent Alysanne. “That I needed to forget him so I could love the man who would marry me, and not be haunted by an unworthy halfman’s ghost.” She sniffles. “And he left for home and I never spoke to him again. That’s why I’ve held my heart away from you. I cannot bear that hurt again, not when I’m older now and yet I am still so fragile.”

They are quiet for a while. Swaying slightly, to the tune of nothing, with all the lights in the canals as witness. Then Robb kisses her forehead. The sweetness nearly brings her to tears. “I’m sorry, Rhaenys. Tell me what you need to make you feel better, I’ll do anything.”

“Be honest.” She squeezes her eyes shut and prepares herself. “Do you love me?”

“Aye.” His voice is rough, and he massages her back. She is like coils of sailing rope against him, stiffened with sea salt and unyielding. “I love you. I knew I would. And I was already half in love with you by the time we sailed for Essos. How couldn’t I be?” Rhaenys shakes and he holds her so tightly. “You’re kind, and good, and so sweet to my siblings and cousins even when my family has done you great harm—let me finish, my sweet.” Rhaenys chokes on her retort. She is his sweetheart. Tears finally trickle down her cheeks. “And you have been hurt so badly by people who were supposed to love and protect you. I already hated your father, I’ll say it. He sent my father to the Wall when all my father wanted was his missing sister safe in his arms again. I never got to know him because of a war that began with a lie. And then I saw how the great King Rhaegar treats his daughter, and it’s enough to turn me into a kingslayer.”

He pulls back slightly and wipes her cheeks with his thumb. “You’ve been hurt and yet you went out of your way to make my sisters feel welcome. You are the perfect princess loved by everyone from Dorne to the Wall. And you are funny, and witty, and make my entire body warm up with just a smile because looking at you is like seeing the sun rise. And last night, when you told me your secret and I told you mine…that’s when I knew I _love_ you. That I _trust_ you. And that I’ll lay the rest of my life at your feet, if it means making you happy and safe.”

Rhaenys’s voice breaks. “You already make me happy and safe. I can’t sleep at night unless I’m in your arms.” The look in his eyes melts the ice around her heart. She trembles, then whispers, “You said that you’re mine, if I would have you.” He nods, and she takes the plunge. “But would you have me? I’m yours. I’m yours, if you will have my love.”

“I am yours and you are mine, for now and always.”

He kisses her.

She loves him.

Damn them both, she loves him and he loves her. And she will make it work, she will make sure that they will not turn into Father and Mama, or Father and Lyanna. They will be better than the songs, they will be like Arianne and Aurane; like Viserys and Asha and Qarl. They will be what Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn could have been had fate let them; like what Lady Catelyn and Lord Benjen are now after the dust has settled.

Most of all, they will be themselves. Robb and Rhaenys. And the promise makes light flash all throughout her nerves, makes her blood sing like a river torrenting towards the sea. She kisses him once, twice, thrice and he slides his hands up her back into her hair.

Rhaenys whimpers Robb’s name against his lips, and he groans. Torrid heat fills her belly, and she has the sudden urge to enter the water with him and be like mermaids and sailors. No, they can’t, they must return below deck and sail the Rhoyne. But then Robb kisses her neck and all she sees and breathes is stars. His teeth graze against her pulse and it’s only his arms holding her up.

“Forgive me, my love,” he gasps against her skin. “But I’d rather consummate our marriage on a bed than on an open ship deck. I want it to be good for you.”

She shivers in frustration and delight. How could she possibly wait any longer? And yet, the idea of having him on that overstuffed bed in the privacy of that luxurious manse… “First the river, then our marriage bed.” What a promise.

They hold their embrace and breathe in the crisp air, willing their hearts to slow. Then they return, hand in hand, down below. Daenerys is asleep, curled against a dozing Aemon. Asha raises her eyebrows at them in appraisal but says nothing. Instead, Viserys asks, “When shall we sail for the river Rhoyne? The _Jolly Kracken_ can manage the headwaters, I’m sure. Unless you want to use your own ship?”

“Could you sail the _Sun Maid?_ I’d rather not involve my crew, since they don’t know my intentions there.”

“I hardly know your intentions, sweet niece. But my lovely Asha can steer any ship, and I dare say your diligent crew needs a break from your epic journey.” Rhaenys snorts and Viserys makes his way to his chambers. “At dawn, or when we awake. Whichever first. Now come be our bedmaids, Qarl’s feet are always freezing cold and I shan’t have it!”

Somehow, they all fit in one bed. Elbows in shoulders, knees against hips, they fit. Hopeless and half broken, they fit. And Rhaenys manages to sleep, the memory of “I love you” still tinging in her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter finished! And it was the Big Romantic Moment! Rhaenys is finally accepting Robb’s love yay! Next chapter we finally head to the Rhoyne!
> 
> Fun fact: Rock Paper Scissors originated in China, said to have begun in the Han Dynasty. So it’s fair game for Yi Ti/fantasy medieval China to play it and then teach it to Viserys, Asha and Qarl. I’ve based Leng off of Vietnam in this story, since the history of China invading Vietnam multiple times and leaving a huge impact on its culture mirrors Yi Ti and Leng. Southeast Asia has a lot of monkeys and tigers, so that’s also a good fit for Leng. Vietnamese rice wine is very strong (and can be dangerous if you don’t buy it from the proper seller) and sweet, so Lengii black rice wine is ten time stronger and sweeter since it’s Fantasy™ lol
> 
> The Viserys/Asha/Qarl triad serves a) to shows the inherent faults in a possible Elia/Rhaegar/Lyanna triad when all three of them live, and b) to harp upon the theme about choice and lack of choice. 
> 
> Viserys, Asha and Qarl all chose to be together without shaming one another (Rhaegar shaming Elia at Harrenhal for Lyanna) or deceiving one another (Rhaegar not telling Elia that he wanted Lyanna, and Rhaegar not telling Lyanna that she was going to be one of two wives instead Elia stepping aside/being put aside). Their ages are all much closer together, and while Viserys does have greater social power than Asha and Qarl since he’s a prince and they are traitorous ironborn, he gives up that social power to be with them and now they are equals. Lyanna, and to a slightly lesser extent Elia, is never Rhaegar’s equal. She never really had a choice in going with Rhaegar (here we are with the theme of choice again) because if she got cold feet, he could just take her like Robert accused him of in canon. 
> 
> So, in the end, either Lyanna or Elia can be discarded or used according to Rhaegar’s desires and it poisons a potential triad relationship. I’m sure there’s ways of fixing these issues in other AUs, but in this story it was doomed from the start.
> 
> I hope that all made sense!


	6. The River

At first light, most of them leave on the Sun Maid for the northern coast. Qarl elects to stay behind, to oversee the crew of both ships and to be their connection in case something goes wrong and they need Qarl to come with aid. Rhaenys promises him to bring him back a treasure for his hard work.

True to Viserys’s word, Asha takes easy command of the _Sun Maid_. They sail for hours, and Rhaenys near convulses with impatient energy. It’s like she’s swimming up from a tumble in the Blackwater Rush with no air left in her lungs and the surface is so close, yet she is still not there. Then finally, finally, Rhaenys sees her path.

Where the north wind blows against the Shivering Sea there are hills standing defiant. A short but wide river flows from those hills into the sea, and Rhaenys’s mind clears of other thought. It is the path to the headwaters of the Rhoyne. There is where she needs to be.

The _Sun Maid_ hugs the coastline to the delta of the river, and despite facing against the current the ship slides through its waters as easy as a boat through Braavosi canals. Asha widens her eyes and says, “This ship has no oars. How are we sailing upstream in a clear path?”

They all look at Rhaenys, who sits down at the prow of the boat. From here she can see the color of the water changing from blue to gray as it mixes with the coastal water. She stares closer, until she can see flecks of green. Gold. Red. White. Purple. An entire rainbow beneath the ship’s bow, twisting and obliterating into sparks. The air is colder here than in King’s Landing, but she is overly warm and peels off her cloak.

Robb sits next to her and asks, “Do you need anything?” Does she? The river leads them between the hills, and they rise dramatically around the _Sun Maid_. She holds his hand and he squeezes back. Shadows play across all their faces, and the waters glow. Robb swallows, and asks again, “Could…could you sing for us? Sing us the river song.”

Rhaenys inhales, exhales, and sings in Rhoynish. _“Where the north wind meets the sea, there's a river full of memory.”_ The hills begin to tremble, subtly at first then enough to sounds like thunder in the narrow river valley. Viserys and Asha are yelling, and Aemon and Daenerys want Rhaenys to get in the compartments with them, but she doesn’t. _“Sleep my darling, safe and sound, for in this river all is found.”_

In a rush of light, the river comes alive with a thousand different colors. Water floods around the boat, and then the river tugs them deep down in between the hills until the hills become one and they are underground. The marble walls glitter with diamonds, amethyst, every gem in the spectrum until the water rushes around them and all glows blue. Rhaenys’s voice is no longer only her own, it echoes in the cavern and refracts into Mama’s voice, joining together again. _“In Her waters, deep and true, lie the answers and a path for you.”_ She turns to look at Robb, whose blue eyes are wide enough to swallow the sea in. She runs her free hand across his cheek. _“Dive down deep into Her sound, but not too far or you'll be drowned…”_

They go faster, deeper, into the center of the source. Water spins around them now, and Rhaenys sees glimpses of the past within them. A book she once lost. Lyanna and Father glaring at each other. Tyrion in the library. Visenya and Lysella coming to her at night afraid of a storm. Memories, of her own and others. Her family gasps in awe and terror as their own pasts spiral around the boat. Grey Wind dragging an unconscious Robb back to Winterfell’s gates after his horse had thrown him into a river. Asha slashing a pirate open neck to groin before he can drive his dagger into her heart. Viserys conspiring with Arianne to defy their betrothal. Daenerys standing defiant in front of Father, so angry, so heartbroken…

_“Yes, She will sing to those who'll hear, and in Her song, all magic flows. But can you brave what you most fear? Can you face what the river knows?”_

The roar of dragons echoes from Rhaenys’s lips, joined by direwolves and the sea crashing endlessly against an icy silence. Daenerys gasps from what she sees in the river; her whisper is lost to the river song. Rhaenys sees monsters of every shape and size from bedtime tales come to scourge the earth. They destroy everything they touch, and a man with silver hair fights them back but it’s not enough, it’s not enough without…she shivers as heat washes over her back as if someone’s set her on fire. Then there is darkness, for a terrible crushing moment, and in that one moment Rhaenys sees her mother.

Mama stands in the Great Hall of the Red Keep, Rhaenys hiding behind and Aegon sleeping in Mama’s arms. Mama holds Aegon’s head against her breast, covering his ears so that he doesn’t awake. Rhaenys cannot be more than three years old, because the wretched figure slouched on the Iron Throne is Mad King Aerys. He is shouting at them, calling them traitors and Dornish whores. Mama shouts back at him, saying that he can do as he pleases with her but for the sacred laws of the gods, he must leave her children be. No man is as accursed as a kinslayer and they shall strike him down where he stands. Aerys defies her. “None of you are dragons!” he screeches. “And I shall prove it!”

Goldcloaks surround them and Rhaenys cries. Mama fights, she grabs a dagger from a hidden pocket and slashes one goldcloak’s throat ear to ear and another’s face brow to chin. But there are too many of them, and Mama must also protect her children, so she cannot win. There is a pyre beneath their feet and Mama screams. “Murder!” she screams. “Murder! The king is a kinslayer!”

Then a bloodied and beaten Ser Jaime Lannister runs into the room, cutting down the men in his path. Aerys shrieks to burn them all, burn the Dornish whore and her whelps, burn all of Kings Landing. “Burn them in their homes! Burn them in their beds! Let my traitor son be the king of charred bones! But first, burn HER!”

Someone ignites wildfire beneath Mama. Mama wriggles free of part of her bindings, just enough to pull Rhaenys up by the back of her night shirt and throw her. It is all she can do before the wildfire engulfs her and Aegon. Rhaenys lands hard and smacks the back of her head against the floor. A goldcloak stands above her to drive his sword into her chest, and Mama shrieks. But then Jaime is there with a sword through the goldcloak’s back. Jaime then cuts down every gold cloak, every pyromancer, and finally the king. Aerys dies screaming for fire. Aegon never screams at all. And Jaime screams, burning himself while pulling Mama from her pyre.

Mama lies in his arms, blackened and burnt and still so beautiful. Jaime weeps. “Forgive me, Elia. Forgive me.” He kisses her, just the once.

Mama whispers, “Everything will be alright. Just you see.” She reaches out for Rhaenys with the burnt stump of one arm. Jaime carefully brings Mama to Rhaenys’s body. Mama lays the stump of her arm on Rhaenys’s chest, feels her breathe, and then Mama dies.

Rhaenys opens her eyes and bursts into sobs that wrack her entire body. She curls into herself, clutching her chest for it will tear itself apart and release her bloodied, battered heart into the river. Into the river. Into the river. Into the river. Rhaenys stands, and before Robb can stop her, she throws herself headfirst into the Rhoyne. She sinks down and there’s more wretched memory. Mama crying after Aerys said “she smells Dornish” about Rhaenys. Mama holding her cheek after Aerys slapped her in the Great Hall. Mama waiting for Father to come back. Mama waiting for Father to come back with a woman who will replace her. Mama giving birth to Aegon and shrieking as she’s torn asunder. Mama’s dress being torn from her back by King Aerys. Mama on fire. Mama burning to death. Mama’s misery, Mama’s fears, Mama’s _pain._

Rhaenys is surrounded by pain, so much pain, she’s drowning in it and cannot swim to the surface. Her mouth opens and she gasps for air that does not come.

**_“Where the north wind meets the sea_ ** **, _there's a Mother full of memory._ _Come my darling, homeward bound…when all is lost, then all is found.”_**

Someone grabs her by the back of her dress and pulls her up. Rhaenys resurfaces in a pool, sputtering and vomiting water. Pool is not the right word it though, for the pool stretches around her for what seems like forever in a glittering cavern filled with magic light. She treads water, until that same someone pulls onto a stone islet behind her. There is little else on the islet, with only an empty jar and a broken Rhoynish poleboat long abandoned. Rhaenys coughs out the last of the water, and looks up to see— “Mama?”

Mama smiles. She is Mama, olive skinned and dark haired and alive. But she is not only Mama, but the Mother. Her eyes are at the same time a thousand different colors and a fathomless black. The Mother Rhoyne. Mother cups her chin and says, “My own darling, homeward bound. I’ve finally found you.”

Rhaenys sinks into her embrace. She is warm, and smells of jasmine, and cards her fingers through Rhaenys’s tangled hair. She weeps. Mama is here. Mother is here. She is no longer lost and alone. She weeps for a thousand years, until her heart is finally unburdened from a lifetime of need.

“You were so brave, my little sunbeam.” Mama kisses her forehead. “But I knew you could find your way here and brave the cost of memory.”

“Was…was that what I needed to know?” Rhaenys looks up at Mama and wrings her hands until Mama stills them. “You didn’t die in an accident, you and Aegon were murdered. Why did Father hide that?”

“You will know soon.” Mama points to the horizon, where the _Sun Maid_ is crawling ever forward. “You took the fast way here, be patient.” Rhaenys laughs wetly and Mother dries her tears. “You needed to know the truth of the past, and the truth of the coming future.”

The darkness in the horizon that Rhaenys saw before. It seems so long ago. “The Long Night?”

“That is the Northern name for it, yes. A plague of cold and death that once spread over the entire world, through Westeros and Essos and in lands far from here. And now that plague is returning, with all the monsters long thought gone. You all must prepare.”

“How do we do that?” Rhaenys cannot imagine how to defeat death, if it is even possible by mortal hands. Yes, the man with silver hair fought back the monsters, but he was just one man. Is that to be her path?

Mother smiles, and everything is made of sunlight, refracting through Rhaenys’s body. She collects some of the glowing river water into the jug and presses it into Rhaenys’s hands. “Through song. There is the song of ice and fire to lead the Fight for the Dawn. There is the song of dragons that will awaken them from stone. There is the silver song of man and monsters and how they are rendered equal. And then there is the song of sun and water, passed down from the Mother Rhoyne. Listen, my little sunbeam, my precious daughter, and know my song in your heart forever now and always.”

Rhaenys listens. Rhaenys learns. Rhaenys _knows_.

The time it takes for the Sun Maid and its passengers to come to the stone islet is no time at all, and eternity. Rhaenys speaks with Mama about her siblings and asks if she is angry or sad to see them thrive. Mama is glad that her siblings are kind and good and everything their parents are not. She asks if Mama is proud of the things she’s done and not done and will do. Mama is always so very proud of her. She asks if she approves of Robb and the family they will make. Mama is certain that their love will last as long as their family line.

Finally, she asks if Mother is certain that they can save humanity from the Long Night. Mother kisses her forehead and leaves her with her blessing. And all the water soaked in her dress and seeping in from the pool is now as warm as soup.

In a flash, she sees Mother, then her daughter. A thousand daughters, spanning from the earliest Rhoynar past Nymeria into the Salty Dornish. She sees Mama; she sees herself; and she sees a girl with rich auburn hair, then silver-gold; olive skin rich, then Northern fair; and eyes bright like frosted heather, then dark like Mother Rhoyne. Rhaenys loses herself, just for a while, in that daughter’s smile.

“Rhaenys!” Aemon yells for her from the ship when it comes to rest at the islet. Rhaenys draws herself away from that beautiful vision, still clutching onto her jug of water. “You better have a good reason for jumping into a swirling vortex, may the gods help me!”

They come off the ship and Aemon cuffs her upside the head before squeezing her half to death in his arms. He looks shaken, either by her plunge or by what the river showed him. Rhaenys kisses his cheek and tastes salt. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You scared all of us.” Robb’s voice is hoarse. Even Asha, without a single bone of fear in her body, is ashen and subdued. “Everything went dark and then I saw—we all saw things—then you just started sobbing and you threw yourself into the river.” His voice fills with tears. “Never do that again, I beg you. I thought I saw you die.”

Rhaenys folds herself against his chest. “I won’t, I promise. I’m sorry.”

He forgives her, they all do. And then they sit in a circle on the islet, illuminated by the glowing of the Rhoyne and the endless gems in the cavern above. “I’ll start,” Viserys says. “The river gave me a terrible vision of the war with the Iron Islands. I watched Euron Greyjoy poison Tywin Lannister; cut off his eyelids and lips; and cut out his tongue.” To their surprise, his vision plays in the water next to them, and Lord Tywin’s maiming is as horrible as Viserys’s words. Viserys narrates the rest: “But then Tyrion Lannister flooded Casterly Rock’s halls from the sewers. Everyone began to panic, and with his dying strength Lord Tywin drowned Euron in shit.” He shivers and holds his cloak tighter across his body. “And when my brother learned of how Euron died, he did the same to Euron’s captured brothers. Then he threatened Balon Greyjoy that if he and his sons did not surrender to the sword, he would do the same to his wife and children and make him watch.” The water goes still with a final image of Asha, hardly more than a child, and her little brother Theon clinging together. Rhaenys can barely stand to look at it.

“Mine wasn’t in Westeros at all,” Asha says. She stares into the pool. “It was in Leng. I love that island, it’s full of tall women and tigers and spices and that black rice wine.” The water shifts into scenes of beauty. Of a place Rhaenys wishes she could go, just to see that beauty in person. “But there was a cave there with a stairwell leading into the earth that we weren’t allowed to enter when we went. Do you remember, Viserys? In the vision I saw what was down those stairs.” She narrows her eyes. “Monsters. Sleeping monsters of every shape and form that shouldn’t exist.” Daenerys gags at what the water reveals and Rhaenys feels nauseous herself. It’s obscene, she cannot begin to describe how unnatural those…those _things_ are. “And that if snow and ice should ever cover Leng’s forests, the spell keeping them asleep will break and they will awaken and destroy the world. Or what’s left of it.”

Robb sighs. “I saw the Night King.” The water reveals a tall figure with frozen pale skin and frozen blue eyes that _hate._ “He is far North, so far that I couldn’t tell if it was still Westeros or somewhere else. And he is coming, with an army of—an army of the dead.” And all those dead have the same frozen blue eyes; their faces shift between strangers, to Robb’s loved ones. Rhaenys gasps in horror, because now she knows for sure what lies in that dark horizon. An army of the dead, marching forever towards the light and snuffing it out. She looks around to see everyone else pale and trembling like ghosts. Robb says, “I don’t know how long it will take him to get to the Wall, I don’t know how we even fight against them. But I saw fire too right before the vision ended. That must be what kills them.” Asha barks a harsh laugh, and Robb snorts under his breath. “Kills them right dead.”

Aemon is reluctant to speak, but with their goading he opens up. “I saw…many things in the river. Too much. But most of all I saw a vision about what Father did to Lord Sunglass.” the water reveals Lord Sunglass spitting on the floor before Father and Lyanna. “He was spreading rumors that Father and Mother’s marriage was invalid. That I was a bastard, and my sisters too. That Rhaenys should hold the throne with Stannis Baratheon to make things right. And there was growing support for him among pious lords, and the Faith of the Seven was so angry that Mother prays to the heart tree.” Rhaenys watches Rhaegar stand from the Iron Throne with cold fury in his eyes. And Lord Varys slinks in from around a corner with a sly smile. “So, he told Lord Sunglass to return to his holdings and prepare a suit to present to the High Septon. When he left, he told Lord Varys to find treason in his past, and when he did, he had Lord Sunglass sent to the Wall over whispers and half-nothings. And he brought his brother Tristian to the Red Keep to be his squire, and gave half his land to the Lord Hand.” Aemon clenches his fists. “It wasn’t right. It was a lie. We were told that Lord Sunglass was trying to put Lord Baratheon on the throne!”

Rhaenys calms her brother before he gives over to rage. She buries down her sudden desire to snap at him that it’s no great insult to be called a bastard, since the Lord Hand calls her half as much all the time. When he calms, she explains what she saw, and Viserys weeps for his dead good sister and nephew. Daenerys also cries, fat silent tears down her cheeks. Robb and Asha are horrified, Aemon looks ready to faint. “But Father said it was an accident—our grandfather did this?”

“I’m not surprised,” Asha says with a low and pained voice as she cradles Viserys’s head against her neck. “He raped his own sister like how a sellsword rapes a tavern maid. His heart was black as pitch. And none is as accused as a kinslayer. That curse will be all our undoing if it goes unanswered.”

“But he wouldn’t! There has to be a reason, Father wouldn’t lie—”

“He would and he has,” Rhaenys snaps at him and Aemon flinches. “He lied to my mother about Lyanna, he lied to all of us about how my mother died, I don’t think he’s told me the truth once all my life. I’m sorry if that’s a shock.” Rhaenys inhales, exhales, and calms herself. Bringing up her resentment towards her half-siblings will not help them. “I’m sorry, but it’s true. And we need to accept what the river showed us.” Aemon nods a little nod, and the sight devastates her.

Daenerys looks at Rhaenys with tears in her eyes. “Rhaenys…forgive me.” She wipes at her eyes. “I’ve kept a secret from you for years, and it wasn’t right.” Rhaenys wonders if she and Daenerys saw the same horrible truth. Did she know and keep it from her? She looks towards the water and sees Father and Ser Arthur Dayne standing in front of Jaime Lannister. Jaime is still holding Rhaenys in one arm and her mother’s crumbling corpse in the other; she hardly sees the lump that Aegon used to be on her mother’s chest. “Years ago, Ser Arthur came to me drunk. He thought I was my mother, and he confessed the truth of how Elia, Aegon and Ser Jaime Lannister died. I confronted Rhaegar about it, and he swore he’d send me to the Silent Sisters if I ever breathed a word of it, and within the week I was sent to Highgarden.”

Daenerys’s voice chokes on her tears and she cannot continue. Then the water begins to speak. Rhaenys hears Father scream at Jaime, “You swore to protect my family! You swore!”

“I did,” Jaime agrees, and his voice rubs her heart raw. “I could not, and I am so sorry.” Father paces like a trapped beast, his face burning and tears streaming down his cheeks. He accuses of Jaime of being a craven, of being no true knight, of even working with Aerys to set fire to those sad corpses in Jaime’s arms. Then Jaime raises his chin, his lips still smeared with ash and blood. “No, Your Grace. I failed her, I admit it. I failed her and Prince Aegon and even your wicked bastard of a father. But it wasn’t I who abandoned Elia and her son to King Aerys’s madness.”

Ser Arthur steps forward with his hand on his sword hilt. “You dare!”

“Yes, I dare! I dare to say it because you did not listen to her!” Jaime’s eyes burn like wildfire. “She knew you and Lyanna Stark would bring down war on our heads, she knew you planned to force her to make a mockery of marriage for the sake of your lusts! All for a five-and-ten year old girl! And yet she stood here, every inch a queen! She stood by the throne! By _you_! And you left her here to _die_!”

Father looms over Jaime. “You…you loved her, didn’t you?” His voice is soft and drips with poison. “Do you dare deny it?”

Jaime is so young, so pained, so glorious and terrible. “I loved her. She was good and kind and smart and so, so beautiful. And she deserved better than to be shackled to a man who could not even give her a crown of roses.” He sneers at Father and Ser Arthur. “May her daughter be the queen that Elia never got to be.”

Father screams, and the sound is so wretched, filled with pain and hatred and despair that Rhaenys hopes she will never hear such an agonized wail again. Then Father takes his sword and strikes Jaime dead. Jaime collapses on Mama’s corpse and her ash mixes with his blood. Only by chance is the Rhaenys in his arms unhurt. Rhaegar drops his sword. After a heartbeat of silence, he picks up Rhaenys, and turns to Ser Arthur. “Everyone in this room died because of a wildfire accident. No one was to blame. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

And then the waters fade back into their ethereal glow. Daenerys doubles over crying, and Viserys pulls his younger sister into his arms. Aemon stares at the water as if it’s reached out and slapped him, as if he stares hard enough the truth will turn back into a lie. Asha and Robb whisper to each other that it all makes sense now, what fools they were to believe the lie. And Rhaenys is tired. She is tired in every drop of her blood, in every inch of her skin and bone, in every echo of her heartbeat. She reaches out to Daenerys and whispers, “I forgive you, Dany. I forgive you.”

For a while they say nothing. Daenerys stops crying, and the only sound is of their breathing and the quiet hum of the river. “But what does this all mean?” Asha eventually asks “Forgive me, those visions of that bastard are awful, but they don’t match visions of demons and monsters. It seems apples and lemons to me.”

Robb is the one to answer. “All the visions are about dangers facing Westeros. Yours and mine are dangers from outside, and yours,” he turns to Rhaenys, “are about the dangers from within.”

Aemon pales. “You think my father is a danger to Westeros?”

“If he is enraged, yes.” Robb steels his gaze. “In all other times, King Rhaegar is a poor king. I know it, you know it, every lord and smallfolk know it. A scholar locked in the library at best, and an uncaring, bitter man obsessed with prophecy at truth. But when he is pushed or insulted…we call him Iron’s Bane in the North. Rhaegar Iron’s Bane, the Demon Dragon. The costal lords worship him for crushing Pyke, ‘tis true, but the rest?” He shakes his head. “He has an incredible streak of cruelty in him that keeps the lords in line and that is dangerous. You saw what he did to Ser Jaime and Lord Sunglass.”

Rhaenys can see it now. Father is not good with dealing with pain or irritation—his response to his wife and son’s murder at his father’s hands and his own reckless actions was to murder the knight who saved Rhaenys’s life and isolate the Red Keep entirely from their memory. When Lord Sunglass whispered too loudly about the legitimacy of his marriage to Lyanna, Rhaegar took his brother to the Red Keep as a “squire” and had his Master of Whispers find treasonous justifications to split apart land holdings and send Lord Sunglass to the Wall. He banished Oberyn from all Westeros, he told Viserys and Arianne to never return to Kings Landing, all for slights that he himself caused. And when the ironborn dared to rise against him, he executed every Greyjoy save Asha, and burned Pyke to the ground and salted the ashes. To this day no one lives there. To this day few lords hold Rhaegar in high esteem and all are held back from another rebellion by fear. But how long will fear hold over them?

Rhaenys sinks against Robb. “He is not ready for the Long Night. He’s spent too long trying to find the perfect prophecy to fit, and when war comes to the realm he will lash out and blame everyone for not being prepared.” Rhaenys wrings her hands until Robb stops her. “And with most lords only tolerating him, they would fight back, and we’d fall apart before the Night King even comes to Kings Landing.”

“War,” Daenerys whispers. “We can’t let it happen.” She stands up and looks to the other edge of the islet where the poleboat is. “We can’t let the realm freeze over and die. And I was shown what I must do.”

Daenerys ignores their questions and goes back to the _Sun Maid_. She returns with the six dragon eggs, and a long flint. And she strides to the poleboat, her violet eyes focused on a point Rhaenys cannot see. Rhaenys feels anticipation rise within her, like water responding to the tides, magic responding to magic—

Before Rhaenys, before anyone, can further question her, the poleboat is on fire. And Daenerys is inside. They shout and run to the poleboat, but the ancient wood goes up like dry kindling and the fire burns like nothing Rhaenys has ever felt. She shields her face and cries out, but her body refuses to act. Viserys screams and rages at Daenerys, at the gods, at everyone.

Six loud cracks echo through the cavern, and there’s the screaming of something long restrained in stone but now free. They back away from the fire now threatening to swallow the islet, and from that haunting sound. The fire is so close, they should return to the _Sun Maid_ before it’s too late…but it’s not.

It’s not, because Rhaenys knows the song of sun and water in her heart forever and always.

She raises her arms. A force flexes within her, like a new muscle. And a gentle wave of water floods the islet, washing away the fire and the remains of the poleboat.

From the rising steam stands Daenerys, naked as the day she was born, and six dragons the size of human children huddled around her body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now entering the stage: Mother of Dragons! Daughter of the Rhoyne! The Night King and eldritch abominations! Grey Wind, Goodest of Boys! And with that, the first part of this story has reached its climax. Now what’s left is a couple transition chapters to the second (and longer) part.
> 
> Rhaenys has rediscovered the art of Rhoynish water magic, and it will literally reshape Westeros. The art is teachable if one person knows the song(s) of sun and water; the art comes easiest to women of Rhoynish heritage but as long as someone honors the Mother Rhoyne they can do it. Perhaps any children she has with Robb will come to learn the art…perhaps indeed.
> 
> From the start of this story, I wanted Daenerys to awaken dragons from stone as she did in canon since a) I didn’t think it fair to take her biggest moment from her and b) if anyone should bring back the dragons/redemption of the Targaryen line, it should be the last, unexpected daughter of its worst son.   
> Because she woke the dragons at the source of the (very magical) Rhoyne, they got a big boost and start out much larger to begin with. As long as they’re raised in free space and fresh air, they will all grow larger much faster. 
> 
> I’m undecided who will become dragonriders, and I’m reeeeally undecided if Rhaenys should be able to literally control water plus ride a dragon. That seems like massive overkill. That might not be her life plan, you know? The answer will come to me I’m sure.
> 
> This was a doozy to write, so I hope you enjoy reading it!


	7. The Voyage

They board the _Sun Maid_ in stunned silence. Viserys tries and fails to say something a dozen times, before settling on just shaking his head. And to be fair, Rhaenys has no idea what to say either.

Dragons live again. Daenerys set herself and the eggs on fire to give birth to dragons, already as large as hounds. Rhaenys looks into the eyes of “her” dragons—but who is she to claim a dragon? A living creature of myth? The dragons from her three eggs come to sniff her like Balerion confused by a new soap scent. Rhaenys imagines Balerion transforming into the Black Dread and laughs a hysterical giggle before clamping it down.

Daenerys looks at all of them, then huffs and crosses her arms. “Well? Come now, I’m not dead! Say something!”

“How do we feed them?” Asha asks. She blinks, still shell-shocked. “Do dragons like…goat?”

Aemon, white and wan like a corpse, goes into the kitchen compartment to search for meat. Rhaenys and Robb sit on the deck, wary of the dragons circling them. History books about dragonriders of old never quite focused on how to raise baby dragons. One of them, the amber and gold dragon, trills at her just like an overgrown cat. Rhaenys shakes her head at herself. “Oh, we’re being ridiculous, aren’t we?” She reaches out a hand to the dragon, and it sniffs her palm before rubbing its face against it. “They’re like my Balerion. I doubt they’ll tear us limb from limb if we treat them well.”

Daenerys smiles down at her own dragons, like how a mother smiles at her children. And indeed, is Daenerys not their mother? Does she have better claim to these dragons than Rhaenys, seeing how she woke them from stone? Rhaenys doesn’t mind sharing dragons—sharing dragons! As if they were pets! She looks at Robb and hopes that maybe his Northern sensibilities can make sense of this all. “You have direwolves at Winterfell. How did you bond with them?”

He shrugs and allows the purple dragon to curl up on his lap. “A bit like this. Giving them food and shelter, playing with them, teaching them that eating annoying stable hands is bad. Naming them helps instead of yelling about the “beasts”, since I doubt they like being called that.”

“Dragons are said to be as intelligent as humans, if not more,” Rhaenys says. She looks into the dragons’ eyes and wonders what they must think about this. Being born in an enchanted cave at the heart of the Rhoyne, thanks to a princess setting herself and them on fire. She fights down another hysterical giggle. “They’ll have to sleep with us in Winterfell, since I don’t think your direwolves will appreciate sharing their space with fire-breathing dragons.”

Robb looks like someone’s hit him in the face with a shovel. And Rhaenys bursts into laughter, unable to do much else. Daenerys takes a platter of cooked meat from Aemon, the leftovers from the ship crew’s meals, and offers it to the dragons. They eat it merrily, pushing each other out of the way entirely like cats. Pets. They have dragons for pets. Or will they be pets for the dragons?

“I will name my three,” Daenerys declares. “It’s only fair you name your three, since they’re yours to keep.”

“You’re the one who birthed them from stone,” Rhaenys says. “I think of all of us, you deserve them the most.”

Daenerys sniffs like the dainty princess she sometimes pretends to be. “I wouldn’t dare steal a wedding gift! And look, they like your husband already, how could I part such a romance?”

Fed and content, Rhaenys’s dragons have curled themselves around Robb who looks like he’d rather throw himself in the ocean. Rhaenys smiles and runs a hand over the pearl dragon’s scales. “They must sense how I love him so,” she teases him. “Or perhaps all dragons are like direwolves and simply wish to curl up on someone mad enough to let them.”

Daenerys names the black and scarlet dragon Nyserix, for every Targaryen woman who dared ride a dragon. The cream and gold dragon Viserion, for Viserys who brought Daenerys this marvelous gift. And the green and bronze dragon Rhaegalla, for Daenerys’s departed mother Rhaella and for Rhaenys herself. “Were it not for you taking me to the river,” Daenerys explains with a bashful smile, “I doubt I would have learned this. So, you’re to thank for this as well.”

Rhaenys rests her head on Robb’s shoulder. She names the amber and gold dragon Sunchaser, since he looks like a little sun. Everyone laughs at her stupid naming—it’s certainly no Targaryen legacy name—and Rhaenys sticks her tongue out. The purple, blue and white dragon will be Mooncatcher, since she looks like an evening night after the moon’s hidden behind the clouds. And finally, she names the iridescent pearl dragon Dreamfyre, since she’s not entirely convinced this all isn’t some fantastic dream.

With the names sorted, and Rhaenys’s jug of river water very carefully set on a table, they decide to sail out of the cavern. Asha struggles to orient the ship. There is no wind in the cavern to aid her, but the ship will sail as surely as it did before. “Shall I just sail ahead and hope we don’t end up at the bottom of the sea?”

Rhaenys smiles as the river forces flexes in her again. “I promise we won’t.” She looks at the river beneath them and feels an odd sense of loss. She doubts she will ever return to the Rhoyne’s heart, nor embrace her Mama again. But unlike the pain and worry she felt at leaving Kings Landing, this grief is more muted. She got to say goodbye to Mama this time. And now her future awaits, and the battle far ahead. Robb links her arm in his, and she watches the little stone islet disappear behind them.

The _Sun Maid_ sails towards the horizon, and slowly the cavern changes into an underground river channel with a light ahead. They arise into mist that cools Rhaenys down to the bone. All around them are pale ruins of a once magnificent city. Graceful arches and fluted columns contrast violently against the thick grey moss and black vines covering them. Sunken obelisks rise from the cloudy water and collapsing marble stairs lead to nowhere. The river water, so clean and blue before, is now white and murky from the fog and the mud and the curse.

The curse. The Sorrows. Rhaenys’s blue eyes widen. “We are in Chroyane.”

“How?!” Vierys looks around them in shock. “Braavos is nowhere near Chroyane!”

“We had to come here,” Rhaenys replies in a soft voice. She gazes at the mighty bridge bisecting the sky, like a hallowed, horrifying dream. At one edge of the bridge she sees slender, broken spires and roofless towers thrusting blindly upward. A palace of love turned to sorrow. And in her mind’s eye, she sees Kings Landing much the same. Broken, forgotten, cursed with death and decay. “We had to see what will happen to us if we don’t stop the Long Night.”

“Didn’t a Rhoynar prince cause this?” Aemon struggles to remember what Father never taught them. “It was right before Nymeria came to Dorne. A prince called down the Sorrows to vanquish the Valyrians who captured him.”

Robb glances at Rhaenys, whose hands tremble in white fists. He’s right, she remembers this from a story Arianne once told her. Garin the Great, too proud to run, calling on the Mother to avenge him. She looks at her fists and unclenches them. Will she and all Westeros need to be avenged too? Kings Landing looms over her heart, covered in moss and vines—is this what _she_ will do?

They pass through more fog, fog so thick they can’t see even a foot ahead. Rhaenys narrows her eyes and kneels. She flexes the river force within, and feels the water surging ahead, bringing the _Sun Maid_ to safety. She hears water rushing against the boat’s hull, hears the dragons trilling, and the fog parts.

Viserys gapes at the new bridge ahead of them. “This—we were just here—we’re in—”

“Volantis?!”

Rhaenys stares dumbstruck at the city enveloping the mouth of the Rhoyne. If Kings Landing was large, and Braavos was beautiful, then somehow Volantis is the best and worst of them all together. Heats shimmers across the buildings like a mirage, and there are thousands of buildings decorated with stucco facades and sunbaked tile roofs. On the eastern shore the buildings are delicately carved from stone, with a great black wall rising from the heart—the famous Black Walls of Volantis. A long bridge made of carved stone with dozens of buildings perched on the sides crosses over the river delta. Just like Chroyane’s bridge, it seems like a dream or a myth, nothing at all like Westeros. And on the western shores are far more colorful buildings, crammed together much like the districts of Kings Landing. It is beautiful, but perverse. A rich, rank smell hangs in the air, making Rhaenys’s stomach curdle. She smells fish, flowers and shit, something sweet and something earthy and something dead and rotten.

Here is Valyria’s First Daughter. And here is she, of Valryian and Rhoynar blood, come to swelter in its glories.

Asha pulls the boat into a private dock next to a small but tidy manse, and Rhaenys massages her temples. They are on the opposite side of Essos from Braavos and Qarl and their ship crew. How did they find themselves here? How do they get back before anyone knows what’s happened? She feels so tired, and nauseous from anxiety. Rhaenys looks up at Daenerys. “Take the dragons down below deck. We can’t let anyone know they live.”

Daenerys gulps, nods, and herds the dragons with promises of more food. Rhaenys wipes cold sweat from her forehead. Ah, perhaps she’s overdone it. As a child she pulled more muscles in her back and arms than she knew she had, all because she was so eager to shoot down one more bullseye. This new force is yet another muscle she’s pulled in her fragile body; her governess shall have her head for Rhaenys’s lack of self-care. Robb helps her to her feet and rubs her arms. There is a light sheen of sweat on his own forehead. “How can you be cold? It’s burning hot here, are you sick?”

She allows him to bundle her in a cloak. Viserys says they’re docked by the manse that Qarl won in a card game and where the trio stay in during their stops in Volantis. He leads them into the manse, just as luxurious as the one in Braavos if not more so despite being a third the size. There are no servants, not even a single chambermaid; Viserys curls his lip at the idea of buying slaves to work for him, and Rhaenys sees Daenerys’s eyes darken at the idea of being bought and sold like oxen. A benefit of having such a small property is being able to care for one’s own needs within as the smallfolk do, Rhaenys abruptly remembers from her books on household management. Viserys leads them to spare rooms, with balconies looking over the river and staircases going down to the private riverbank. They carefully herd the dragons into the empty stockroom next to the kitchens, since the room is lined with dragonglass and spacious enough to contain even six child dragons.

Viserys and Asha leave to go to the market in search of food and wine for noontime meal, while Aemon and Daenerys guard the dragons _,_ Daenerys whispering furiously to Aemon about the injustice of slavery.

Rhaenys and her husband are then left alone in their airy room, with an overstuffed bed that looks like the perfect solution to the exhaustion in her bones. Rhaenys pulls Robb down onto the bed and curls up against him. She rests her head on his chest and whispers, “I’ll be fine. Just need to rest.” She traces dreamy circles on his side. “You know about Nymeria of Ny Sar. Does the North have warrior queens as well?” She needs a story, she needs something to relax to, she needs something that’s not dragons and curses and the stench of the city outside the windows.

He kisses her forehead and tells a Northern tale about Good Queen Bodi, a witch queen who fought off a vast army of invaders with naught but a spear, her loyal direwolf white as snow, and magic that brought down flaming ice from the sky. She died with her eldest children due to a Red King’s treachery, but her youngest daughter Cora avenged her and married a King of Winter to keep Bodi the Witch Queen’s blood alive in the Starks today. She imagines Nymeria in that queen’s place, then the daughter from the river without a name. She dreams of that daughter roaming over snowy meadows on a direwolf with dragon wings, trailing winter roses and summer jasmine in her wake.

She awakes to her head in Robb’s lap as he thumbs through the Dornish text Uncle Doran gave her. “Forgive me for snooping, my sweet,” he smiles and brushes his hand against her cheek. “I wondered if there was something about river magic in this book.” Rhaenys turns her face so she can kiss his palm, and revels in the soft tenderness enveloping her heart.

Then she sits up and arranges herself so that she’s lounging against Robb. “Did you check these bookmarks?” She opens the page on the first bookmark, and the details about the history of citrus trees greets her. Not exactly river magic, but maybe useful for glass gardens. Robb says he did but didn’t find anything to his liking. Rhaenys notes that someone, probably Uncle Doran, rubbed the word “press” so that it is somewhat fainter than the rest of the text.

She furrows her brows, then goes to the next bookmark. “Behind” is faded, and she says, “My uncle did this on purpose. Press behind what?” In total, his simple code says, “Press behind the left corner”, and she tests the covers of the tome. True to Uncle Doran’s word, the left corner of the back cover gives to reveal a hidden second cover, and she carefully pries the material apart. Inside the space between the covers are a small packet of letters.

Rhaenys pulls them out and sees how some are old enough to have faded, and the newest one still smelling of fresh paper. She opens that one first, and reads,

_My dearest Rhaenys,_

_Forgive me for never speaking of this directly. Words may be wind, but every wall has ears. Thankfully you will be either in Essos or in Winterfell when you find these letters, and no little birds can snoop on you there._

Little birds? What would Varys not want Uncle Doran speaking to Rhaenys when he already writes to her once a moon?

_I will be brief. Your uncle Oberyn is alive._

Rhaenys gasps, and tears flood her eyes. Robb holds her close as she fights against the sudden urge to weep. He’s alive, it’s been years, where has he been?

_The King banished him for threats Oberyn made against him in anger. Oberyn faced execution otherwise and I couldn’t stop the King’s will. I myself was forbidden to speak of him to you on pain of my children’s futures. You know of the king’s wrath against the ironborn and those who decry his wife; forgive my craven nature. Oberyn went to Essos and lands beyond and formed a sellsword company: The Black Fang. He goes by the name Lyrio Sand. If you are reading this in Braavos, go to Volantis. He should be there for the next three moons before journeying to gods know where. If you are reading this in Winterfell, seek him out._

_You are Lady of Winterfell now, but still the throne’s trueborn daughter. The King was a fool to send you far from his grasp. Many lords have not forgotten your mother’s kindness, nor the King and Queen’s unkindness. When the winds change course, I shall write you again, and so will your uncle._

Rhaenys and Robb still. By mutual, silent agreement, they decide not to speak of this right at this moment. Another time, for another darker conversation.

_The letters in this book are addressed to you from his hand. I haven’t read them, but I assume they say as I do: that we love you. And our lives will be gladly spent on your behalf._

_Doran, your uncle._

Rhaenys slides against Robb, entirely boneless from grief and joy and shock. She looks up at him. “I thought he was dead,” she breathes. “I thought he and Mama were dead and I would never see them again in this living world. Yet in the river I met Mama, and now I can meet him here…” She sniffles and hides her face in her hands. “I don’t know what I should say to him. What do you say to someone you haven’t seen since you were a little girl?”

Robb sighs, deep and low and sad. “If I could meet my father—not my da, but Eddard Stark…I don’t know what I would say either. Other than that, I love him still, even if I don’t remember him. And I’d tell him that I want to learn to know him.”

His pain breaks her heart. Rhaenys shifts around so that they’re facing each other and cups his face in her hands. She rests his forehead against his, and her dark blue eyes lock with his light blue ones. Blue, like the river and the sky and the snow in her dreams. Blue like sadness. “I love you,” she says with her lips brushing against his. “And I stand by you. If you want to meet your father, I’ll see it happen, my lord father cannot deny us what we are owed.” She feels herself sag with despair. “He’s caused us so much pain, how can you stand the sight of me?”

Robb looks at her with so much love that she wants to drown in it. “You’re not him,” he says so softly she hardly hears his voice. “You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met. What dream did you come from, my love?”

She kisses him, a light touch of lips together. He tilts his head and captures her in a proper kiss, searing and hot and desperate. She blindly sets aside the letters and book and prays that no one will disturb them. Rhaenys almost wants to stop to properly lock the door, but then his tongue licks the seal of lips and she gasps, letting him in. He consumes her, and she mewls, entirely melded to his embrace as she dares to slide her tongue against his and taste him.

He pulls back with a wet gasp and his voice is half breathless, half growl. “Aemon and Daenerys could come in, we shouldn’t.”

No. That deep lust in his eyes is back, and his voice has ignited a fire beneath her skin. And she desires her marriage bed not on this pile of silk and goose down. A true daughter of the Rhoyne desires a different sort of marriage bed. She carefully extracts herself from his arms and gets up. She strips herself of her linen dress, leaving her in her shift, and delight thrills up from her belly when he inhales sharp as a knife and undresses the rest of her with his eyes. Rhaenys then offers him her hand. He wordlessly strips down as well to his own shift, then follows her down the outside staircases to the shoreline. The river water, just as always when she is near it, is clear and clean and unfouled by man or boat. Even with the cool water lapping around her ankles, she feels like she will burn to ash, and yet it’s not nearly enough. She craves his touch, and he did promise to keep her warm. “They call you the Young Wolf in the south,” she murmurs as she toys with the lacing of her shift. “And in the south, we fear the wolves who carry away the sheep, the wolfmen who carry away innocent maidens into the night.”

Rhaenys looks at him, his chest rising and falling harshly, the flush in his skin, the sunlight refracting across his handsome face. How he looks as if he wants to ravish her. How she wants to badly to be ravished. Theirs is a white wedding still, yet there’s nothing white in the blue of his eyes and the red in his lips. Rhaenys asks, “So, I wonder, are you truly a wolf? Are you going to carry me away?”

Robb grins. “Aye. But you’re no simple maid, are you?” He steps close to her and inhales the scent of jasmine and lemon in her hair. “You’re a goddess come from the river to sweep me away. What do you desire of me, my sweet?”

She whispers how she desires that wicked tongue of his and tells him exactly where she wants it. Then he’s pulling her into the water, and all the sadness and grief of families torn asunder is gone, burned away entirely his lips on her skin and her hands in his hair and the river surging around them pulling them deeper into passion, desire, love.

Later, when she’s lying naked on the Rhoyne’s shoreline and he’s whispering love poetry against her stomach and she feels entirely full and satisfied and blissful, she wonders if she would have married Robb in another life. If the Rebellion had never happened, if Brandon Stark had married Catelyn Tully and Mama had gotten to see her children grow up, if so much sadness did not tie their fates together. She decides that no matter the lifetime, they would have found each other.

They will meet with Uncle Oberyn, and raise their dragons and direwolves together, and set to rights what has been broken. All of that later; now, all she needs is just the sound of his voice in the sunlight, his skin against hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anyone asks: I’m not going to write explicit sex scenes in this story since not everyone wants to read that. Instead, if I ever do feel like writing what Robb and Rhaenys get up to, I’ll write it in a separate post. But their marriage is finally consummated, and in the river Rhoyne too! A very auspicious beginning lmao
> 
> The gang is now in Volantis thanks to river magic, and Oberyn is alive! Not that I think anyone actually thought him dead lol I can’t write plot twists to save my life.
> 
> I’ve finally decided how to balance Rhaenys’s water magic and ability to ride dragons thanks to everyone’s very helpful comments! She’s gonna ride a dragon and it’s gonna be great!
> 
> Good Queen Bodi/Bodi the Witch Queen is based on Boudica/Boadicea/Buddug, a Celtic queen who fought against the Romans occupying Britain. She and her daughters were victorious in early battles but were ultimately killed and her rebellion crushed. But she is still a symbol of rebellion and Britain, and in this story Bodi the Witch Queen is much the same on a more epic scale. Her youngest daughter Cora is a reference to Shakepsear’s “King Lear” and Cordelia, the king’s virtuous youngest daughter. In that tragedy she died, but in this story Cora avenged Bodi and became a Queen of Winter. Yay! 
> 
> In the story “All This and the Wild Too” by the extremely talented and marvelous writer littoralbones, her free folk version of Arya names her direwolf Bodi after that story’s own Boudica allegory and the idea stuck with me ever since I read it. Just another bit of inspiration from of the best Robb/Rhaenys writers on this website, go check out her writing!


	8. The Reunion

Viserys and Asha return with Qarl’s gift of a beautifully crafted dagger of Volantene style with a matching sheath, and with dinner. Baskets overflow with steaming hot flatbreads baked with herbs and slathered with an aromatic meat sauce and soft cheeses; roasted artichokes served with seared goat; melon dipped in honey and ginger syrup; and a Tyroshi pear brandy plus a dark red Dornish sour. Rhaenys, dressed in a simple yet blessedly cool yellow silk kirtle and overgown of light green, feels more a princess in this little manse than her years in the Red Keep. She writes down the names of all the herbs, spices and produce used in the food so she can try and harvest them in Winterfell’s greenhouses. Robb asks why and she raises an eyebrow at him. “The royal family keeps to a Northern table when we dine in private, Robb. I won’t stand for it a second longer, even if it means all the goodly lords and ladies in Winterfell shall burst into flames.”

Viserys and Asha laugh, while Robb sniffs that he will subject Rhaenys to something called haggis. From the way Aemon’s eyes widen in horror, Rhaenys guesses she won’t like it. Fine; a haggis for Arianne’s hellfire snake soup.

Once dinner is consumed and washed down with that delightful Dornish sour and pear brandy, Viserys sits up straight. “I asked the date with the merchants in the square. It is still the same day as when we left Braavos.”

“What?” Robb drops his head into his hands. “But we spent hours in the Rhoyne, if not a full day!”

“I’m afraid this is out of my range of experience, so I have no answer for you. Only the facts.” Viserys explains. “I must send a letter back to Qarl telling him of this. Essos has no ravens I’m afraid, but they do have dedicated mail service via the dragonroads. But Rhae, before I send that letter, do you think you could convince the river Rhoyne to flow backwards back to Braavos? I fear we will have to sail the Summer Sea the long way back to our darlings if not.”

Rhaenys closes her eyes and thinks of the song of sun and water within her heart. There are many verses within, some she must mediate on to fully understand the mystery of their music, lyrics unsung by any other water witch for a thousand years…she finds what she needs, and she opens her eyes again. Everyone seems to fidget in their seats at the looks in her river blue eyes, save Robb who looks at her with love as always. “Truth be told, we could sail up the Mother Rhoyne back to Braavos in a day.”

Asha gives her an appreciative nod. “Shame you’re a noble lady, we need that sort of luck in the Jade Sea.” Rhaenys mumbles that it’s not luck, it’s just practice, and Asha winks before turning to her husband. “Suppose we outrace your message then? It’ll take a fortnight for a courier to reach Pentos, let alone Braavos. And as far as Qarl knows, we are still sailing to the heart of the Rhoyne.”

Viserys agrees that it would be a waste of time and money, and that not only are the crew still too drunk to notice that they’re gone but that a letter could be intercepted and raise uncomfortable questions. Rhaenys curls her feet beneath her on her seat and holds her hands together. She inhales, exhales, and doesn’t wring them. She is no nervous little girl awaiting a dead relative come alive again; she is a grown woman, wedded and witched, awaiting a dead relative come again. She tells her family about Oberyn’s survival, and Daenerys gasps. “He’s a sellsword? Surely he’s met Vis and Asha then?”

“Nay, the Black Fang sticks to the farther coasts of Sothoryos and Dread Ulthos.” Viserys shudders. “There be monsters in that ocean, sweet sister.” Rhaenys whispers that those monsters will be truth once the Others come in the Long Night and they are all quiet. Then Viserys stands up and grabs another bottle of wine. “Never mind that, my dear niece! Tonight, we drink with the Red Viper!”

“More like tonight you drink yourself under the table again,” Daenerys giggles, and the tension is broken again. Aemon volunteers to stay behind with the dragons to keep them safe, and Rhaenys kisses his cheek. She knows how much he resembles Lyanna, and how infamous her uncle’s rage towards her stepmother. The others dress in silks and modest finery, enough to command respect but not enough to draw too much attention. Valyrian blood runs thick in Essos, especially Volantis, so Viserys and Daenerys look like pureborn siblings. Those of Dornish blood resemble the Myrish, so Rhaenys with her Valyrian dark blue eyes is just another privileged halfblood. If anything, Asha and Robb stick out for their abjectly Westerosi features. Asha wears a gauzy veil across her face like a rich woman from Meereen; Robb wears a silk scarf held in place with a band, which both resembles a Great Moraqi marauder and protects the sensitive skin of his neck and shoulders from the Volantene sun.

They ride in a cart pulled by a dwarf elephant, called a hathay. No one is happy to be driven by slaves, especially not Daenerys who looks heartbroken at the sight of their driver. Rhaenys holds her hand and smiles at her. Once they meet Uncle Oberyn, they can return to Braavos and leave Volantis and its slaves and sweat behind them. Rhaenys imagines her sweet aunt raining dragonfire down on the Black Walls from the backs of her dragons, and bites her lip. Yes, Rhaenys wants to leave this place far behind her, although Daenerys is free to return.

“Lyrio Sand” and the Black Fang are staying in the Merchant’s House, the finest inn in all of Volantis or so Asha tells her. It stands above the brothers and taverns like yet another fairytale, sighing ale and rose perfume and shit. They enter the common room, and it’s a cavernous hall nearly a large as the Great Hall in the Red Keep. Rhaenys can hardly see in the haze of smoke, eyes skittering over the dozens of alcoves and hidden nooks filled sailors and traders; captains and money changers; shippers, slavers and marauders; all cursing and cheating each other in half a hundred different tongues. She turns to see Asha’s eyes bright with delight, her grin as sharp and lethal as her crowned axe on her hip. Ah, this place may be the last bastion of reaving ironborn culture despite being a world away from the remains of Pyke. Asha links her arms with Rhaenys and Daenerys and declares, “Stay by my sides, my doves. Only a fool would dare touch the Lady Kracken and her mermaids, and we do not suffer fools here.”

She leads them to a table that she forces a pair of half-conscious drunks out of. The drunks look ready to fight, but then Asha pulls out her axe and tells them to go somewhere they can afford. One of the drunks slurs that he can certainly afford Asha, and Viserys stabs him in the hand with a stiletto Rhaenys didn’t see him pull out. The drunk warbles in his agonies and his companion laughs at him before pulling him away. Robb gapes at his new good family, then shrugs and sits down next to Rhaenys. “She did say we don’t suffer fools. I doubt they’ll be needing me to help though.”

Daenerys asks, “How do we know he’s here? Should we ask someone?”

Viserys says, “Two Valyrians, a Dornish beauty and their supposed Essosi companions walk into an inn where every sellsword worth their salt stays, and they stab a drunk with no subtlety. If my good brother doesn’t know we’re here already, he surely does now.”

Rhaenys feels herself vibrating with eagerness and worry and forces herself to relax by drinking the swill this inn calls ale. “Look at me,” she grouses to Robb, “not even two moons after I’ve married you and now I have opinions about ale. Ale! You’ve ruined me entirely.”

Robb laughs and kisses her temple. “That’s the start, aye. I’ll have you eating black pudding and black beer like a proper Northern lass.” His Northern accent is thicker now, perhaps from the ale and perhaps from the anxiety of meeting Uncle Oberyn and perhaps from becoming a true husband to her. She rather likes it and tells him so. “I’m glad you do, since everyone back home sounds ten times stronger. My mother raised me and my sisters with a gentle Southron tongue.”

Rhaenys motions at Viserys and Asha, who are teaching Daenerys how to properly sink a thimble glass of whiskey into her ale with a spoon. “Southrons? Gentle? Have you not met the Prince and Princess of Krackenstone and my sweet aunt?”

He laughs and she leans against his shoulder. Their table is in a private nook, away from the main center of the hall, and she wonders where her uncle must be. Maybe he is one of the inn’s rooms with his sellsword companions or a courtesan? Maybe he’s in the market square haggling for flatbread? She feels someone’s gaze upon her and turns her head to see a pair of obsidian eyes burning into hers.

Or maybe he’s standing right there, hidden in plain sight. Rhaenys doesn’t know what to say so she instead slaps Robb and Viserys on their shoulders. Robb’s mouth widens into an O and Viserys stands up. “By the gods, you really are alive.”

Uncle Oberyn is a tall man, as tall as Father. Slender and graceful too, when he walks to join them at their table he doesn’t move so much as slink like a shadowcat, like silent river water against stone. He has the same widow’s peak as Uncle Doran, the same rich olive skin and back hair as Rhaenys, and the same dark eyes as Mama and Mother.

Rhaenys stands as well and lets Uncle Oberyn inch closer to her. Now that they are standing but inches apart, she can see the lines on his brow, the scars on his skin that mark him as a very dangerous man. Yet she sees no danger in this face, this face that looks so hopeful and heartbroken. “Is it truly you, my little sunbeam?” His low voice is liquid and yet the liquid cracks. “Is it you, Rhaenys?”

Rhaenys says the first thing that comes to her heart. “I love you,” she says, and then Uncle Oberyn is crushing her in a hug that fills her with grief, warmth, love. She hugs him as strongly as she can, and she hears him chuckle about his little sunbeam not being so little anymore. “Uncle Doran gave me your letters when I married, he was forbidden to speak of you.” Rhaenys shakes her head. “It’s not fair. I thought you were dead and gone, it’s not fair.”

“I know, I know.” He sits with her, folding her into his side like she’s only four again. “It’s not right what happened. What _they_ did to you, and your mother. But I’m here now, and they can do nothing about it.” Rhaenys smiles so widely her cheeks ache, and he pinches one. She makes a face and he smiles too. “My darling niece, a woman grown. We have so much to talk about.”

Rhaenys reaches out to grab a quiet and withdrawn Robb’s hand. She draws it into her lap and says in a bold voice, “You must remember Viserys, since I heard stories of how he used to cling to your spear.” She nods at Asha and Daenerys, “This is my good aunt Asha Greyjoy, Viserys’s wife and keeper.” Viserys scoffs and Asha greets Oberyn with a confident smile. “This is Daenerys Stormborn, my dear aunt who is every bit like her mother.” And not like Father, the words go unbidden, and Daenerys blushes red when Oberyn kisses her hand. “And finally, this is my beloved husband Robb Stark.” She feels Robb tense and her uncle’s eyes go hard. No, she will not have it! “Were it not for him, I wouldn’t be here today. Much has happened on our journey here,” she says and smiles at Robb, kissing his palm, “and his love is what lights my fire.”

Uncle Oberyn is still, and for a moment of tense silence they all say nothing. But then he relaxes, and the hardness goes away in his eyes, and he says in a gruff tone, “Nothing less than what my niece deserves.” He shakes Robb’s hand, and raises an appreciate eyebrow. “Lots of calluses there. Do you prefer the sword?”

“Yes,” Robb clears his throat and sits up straight. “Prince Doran was kind and gifted me a spear and scrollwork on how to use it. Once we return to Winterfell, I’ll be grateful for the change in pace.”

Rhaenys smiles. “If he and I are blessed with any children, perhaps they shall be the Spears of Winterfell. Hunting in the wolfswood astride horses and direwolves.” And dragons, cannot forget that. Oberyn looks at them with equal parts joy and sorrow. Rhaenys leans in to say, “And there are no little birds in the North, it’s far too cold for them. Only ravens bearing letters survive there.” He grins and for a moment she is bathed in sunlight. Then Uncle Oberyn calls over a barmaid for more of that blasted ale and better mulled wine. He introduces the dark skinned, pale eyed man by his side as Qorin Sand, the second-in-command of the Black Fang. They all squeeze in together, Rhaenys between Robb and Uncle Oberyn. And with her head held up with her chin in her palms, Rhaenys just listens to him talk.

First, he speaks of the Black Fang. A fearless sellsword company of men and women from around the world, with a heart of Dornish fire. Quite a number of his associates and lovers had followed him into exile, and so did his four daughters. Uncle Oberyn’s Sand Snakes all served at some point in the Black Fang with various fates. Obara, his eldest and fiercest, gave her life saving her father from an attack by a basilisk the size of a longboat and Rhaenys mourns a cousin she doesn’t remember. Nymeria, his most graceful daughter, married a Yi Tish noble and writes him letters of her children exploring ruins long left abandoned in emerald jungles. Tyene, the cousin that Arianne still remembers with fondness despite over a decade of separation, now studies dark religions in Asshai-by-the-Shadow, apprenticed to a dread shadowbinder. And Sarella, his youngest and brightest, is an acolyte studying at the Citadel in Oldtown under a male name. Rhaenys laughs in delight for Sarella’s trickery and the promise of another family member within reach in Westeros.

Uncle Oberyn and the Black Fang have journeyed throughout the Farthest East and South, to lands not even the _Jolly Kracken_ has sailed. The Secret City of Nefer, long thought the last of its kingdom, has a sister city on the southwest coast of Sothoryos that is also underground. He says that one could sail between the two in a blink of an eye, a twisting of one’s compass, and by slicing one’s palm to offer a willing blood sacrifice. Rhaenys wouldn’t believe it, were it not for the _Sun Maid’s_ sojourn through Chroyane and then to Volantis leagues and leagues away. Sothoryi kingdoms, such as Maali with mountains of gold, precious gems and priests; and Ilizwenba whose people’s skin is equally pale and dark in intricate, beautiful patterns just like their artwork; and Eandan where women rule and are born a dusky red untainted by vermilion—they all pay the Black Fang handsomely to fight in wars and trade negotiations. Westeros does not know of these kingdoms, for the Green Hell on the northern Sothoryi coast is all the maesters writing Westerosi maps cared to remember, and the kingdoms prefer it that way. Less diseases and colonizing Valyrians that way. And above all else, her uncle has set foot on Dread Ulthos and seen the treasures and horror within. Qorin pulls out a long strand of large black pearls that glitter darkly in the candlelight, and Rhaenys’s stomach twists seeing their oil-slick surfaces. She cannot fathom why, but she knows down in her bones that these precious jewels were not easily obtained. “Fear not,” Qorin says and smiles at her. He wiggles the fingers of his left hand, where only the little stubs of three fingers remain. “We slayed the beast whom these pearls belonged to, they were won rightly fair.” 

Then Uncle Oberyn recalls why he became a sellsword in the first place. He was banished from Westeros on account of threatening to gut Rhaegar like a fish for letting Mama die. That, and saying that Rhaenys was better off raised in Sunspear away from him and Lyanna, and that the gods would smite him for his stupidity, and that the Iron Throne itself would cut down a man no better suited to being a king than a common gutter rat. “I may have been a touch theatrical,” he muses as Asha desperately holds in laughter and Daenerys nods along. “But it was the truth. I am only thankful I was wrong in that you would not thrive in that shit hole, Rhaenys. If you had died in some godsforsaken accident like your mother—”

Rhaenys must tell him the truth. It is cruelty to do so, yet both cruelty and damnation not to. She tells him of how Aerys murdered Mama and Aegon, of how Father covered up their deaths and killed Ser Jaime Lannister for daring to speak his own truth. Qorin clenches his sword’s hilt until his rich olive hands turn a stark white. Tears fall unashamed from her uncle’s eyes, but he does not weep. Instead he takes a slow, measured sip of his ale. And he says, “I would stab him a thousand times and it would not be enough. But it is your call, my darling, for he is your sire and he is why your blessed mother and brother are gone.” Uncle Oberyn smiles a grim smile. “Say the word, and he shall find the Red Death in his soup.”

“The Red Death, and Robb’s sword through his heart, and Asha’s axe in his forehead, and Daenerys’s fire scorching what’s left.” Rhaenys sighs. “And my own hands around his neck if he dares to bring me more pain. Treason comes far too easily to our minds, doesn’t it?”

Uncle Oberyn gives Robb a scorching gaze. “Your sword through his heart?”

Robb gazes back with his own fire blazing in his blue eyes. “To remind him that it’s damnation to neglect his own daughter, and to inform him that the North remembers. Politely, of course.”

Her uncle laughs, long and hard, then claps Robb on the shoulder. “Oh, I think I like you, Lord Robb.” He stands up. “Have you a manse in this city? Tell me of how you came to love my niece without drunks slobbering over penny ale and halfpenny whores.”

Qorin returns to the Black Fang to take command of the men for the evening, and he gifts Rhaenys the pearls as a darkling necklace. “A jewel like none other, for Elia’s daughter.” He bows low and kisses her hand. “It’s no wreath of winter roses, but it suits you well.”

They return to the manse with Uncle Oberyn’s arm firmly linked around hers. Rhaenys is overwhelmed with joy and shock that this is real, that she’s here strolling along the Rhoyne with her long-lost uncle joking with Viserys and Daenerys about Essosi stereotypes and his arm a strong, steady comfort. Her free hand twitches and flails about in need to do something, and Robb captures it in his own. When they get near the manse, Rhaenys remembers that Aemon is inside with half a dozen dragons and trembles with joy, shock, and absolute terror.

Thankfully, Daenerys thinks first. She runs in, announcing that they’ve returned with Prince Oberyn and that Aemon better make himself presentable. Uncle Oberyn tenses and Rhaenys whispers to him, “He is a good man. He protected me in the Red Keep when Father would not lift a finger to help me. Please don’t be angry at him.”

“It’s not him I’m angry at, my little sunbeam,” and that’s all he says about that. And to his credit, when Aemon comes out to formally greet her uncle, he does not immediately tear his eyes out or lash him to bits with a viper’s tongue. Instead all he says is, “You and your cousin both have strong hands. I’m glad to see it, Rhaenys needs strong men at her side.”

They sit at the table and talk more, Aemon carefully asking questions and her uncle answering calmly in return. Rhaenys sees Viserys look between them with skittering eyes—perhaps it is a Targaryen trait, to never be still and calm unless they force it—before he pulls out yet another wine bottle and asks Uncle Oberyn his thoughts on Ibbenese licorice wine.

Perhaps they would have had a merry time drinking and forgetting their tensions with this bizarre wine that makes Rhaenys question why she finds herself liking such a vile thing. But instead, with Daenerys yelling “No!” from the storage room, the dragons burst out of the door. They are overly excited to see Rhaenys again and are curious about a sputtering Uncle Oberyn from the way they sniff at him.

Asha drops her head to the table and Rhaenys sighs deeply out her nose. Yes, entirely like cats they are! Except Balerion is not the Black Dread and only inspires the sort of dread a small creature makes!

Oberyn turns to Rhaenys and asks in a cracking voice, “And where did you find these?”

“Not so much found but gifted and born.” Rhaenys takes a large pull from that deliciously vile licorice wine, and with Robb’s help she explains the river song pulling her to Essos. How she heard her destiny in the waters of the Blackwater Rush, how they all ended up in a river full of memory south of Braavos, how there is magic returning to the world. Her family jumps in, with Asha’s vision of Leng and Robb’s vision of the Others making her uncle’s face go as pale as ash. Rhaenys admits that the truth of Mama’s death came from that same river, and that now she has the river song within her and accidentally transported them all from Braavos to Chroyane to Volantis. Aemon finishes their disjointed tale with a quiet, “All six of them love Rhaenys and Dany, Your Highness. Especially Rhae’s gifted three. You don’t need to fear for her anymore, for what man dares to fight a dragon?”

“…you’re right, Aemon. What man indeed?” Her uncle rubs her face, looking exhausted and pensive. “But there are stranger things in this world than men. I thought myself and my companions mad when we saw it, but now with your own words and these dragons…”

“Uncle?” Rhaenys puts a hand on his shoulder.

Uncle Oberyn steeples his fingers together. “We were sailing to Volantis back from the Shadow Lands through the Saffron Straits. The weather was rough, and we made landfall on the island Ulos to wait out the storm. No one lives on that island, only rocks and grey ruins of a castle probably built by the Asshai’i.” He shudders. “But then _it_ came from the mountains, and I learned why no one remains on that blasted isle.”

“What came?”

“A beast with the head of a lion, the body of a bird and eight legs tipped with razor sharp claws.” Uncle Oberyn undoes his shirt and reveals three wicked scars gouging across his chest. Rhaenys gasps in horror, too afraid to touch such a vicious wound. “It killed a dozen of my men before we were able to slay it. Only Valryian steel worked against it, its hide was too strong for simple steel. Then we burned its body and took refuge in Asshai until we were hale enough to sail here. We thought ourselves mad and merely victims of some sort of Shadowlands tiger.” Uncle Oberyn cups Rhaenys’s cheek and wipes away a tear she didn’t feel budding. “Grieve not for me, my darling. I have no intention of dying anytime soon.”

Asha wraps her arms around herself. “The Long Night isn’t even here yet and monsters are coming alive? What if my vision was wrong—what if I didn’t see it right, and that the demons beneath Leng break free and destroy the world?” Rhaenys hasn’t seen Asha look this afraid since she was dragged to the Red Keep and made to beg for her life and her mother’s at Father’s feet. She hates that look; she swears she’ll never see it again on her good aunt’s face nor any face of her loved ones. Mooncatcher feels her conviction and lets out a little trill of agreement. She smiles and strokes the dragon’s head, inviting her uncle to do the same so that they may know him and love him as she does.

“We must return to Westeros soon,” Robb says. “We must prepare the kingdoms for the war ahead. Stockpile food, train new soldiers, have Pentos or the Summer Isles or even far Maali agree to take in those who cannot fight when the Others come…” He holds out his hand for Sunchaser to nuzzle against and snorts, “We must train dragons and direwolves to not tear apart Winterfell. But if it survived Edwin, it’ll survive anything.”

“But what of the bastard on the throne?” Asha, still subdued from her memories of the monsters beneath Leng, motions at the dragons curling upon the floor. “You all know what he did to my family when he decided he wanted their lives. You know what happened when he saw lovely Lyanna Stark and coveted her maidenhead for himself. He will never let those dragons out of his sight, not when he will try and command them for himself. He may force you all to turn them over to perhaps Aemon, or more likely his own keeping.” She snorts. “Greedy bastard won’t be satisfied until we are all under his control. King he may be, and a tyrant too.”

Daenerys raises her chin. “They are under Rhaenys’s and my protection. He cannot take them—”

“He will try,” Uncle Oberyn says. “My sister wrote of his obsession with a three-headed dragon. Rhaenys, Aegon and Visenya. He wasted Aegon’s life, but now Aemon lives, and so does Daenerys. And if not Rhaenys and Daenerys, then Visenya and Lysella.”

Robb glares and wraps his arm around Rhaenys’s waist. He is a steady burning comfort against her sudden nausea. Dear gods, what if Father wants her and Daenerys to marry Aemon and fulfill his prophecies that way? Would he have Robb sent to the Wall on more flimsy treason, like Lord Sunglass? Or what if he steals her dragons and gives them to her siblings? Yet another thing taken from her for their sake, her heart hisses in the depths of her resentment. What if the dragons don’t want to leave her? Will he force her back to Kings Landing, or have her done away with—

“Breathe,” Robb murmurs in her ear. Rhaenys inhales deeply, exhales in a rush, and forces herself to stop catastrophizing.

“Knowing my lord father, he will most definitely try, ‘tis true.” Rhaenys steels her spine. “But he was a fool and married me to the Lord of Winterfell. The son of the man he already sent to the Wall—if sends Robb to the Night”s Watch to force me into a marriage with Aemon, or has us killed to take our dragons, war is inevitable.” She stares her uncle down and asks, “If this happens, will you kill him for me?”

Aemon inhales sharply, Viserys and Daenerys go silent, Asha vibrates with tension and Robb kisses Rhaenys’s temple. Uncle Oberyn merely nods. “If he harms you, your husband or your children, there is nothing in the world that will save him from my wrath.” And Rhaenys drinks to that.

Rhaenys is afraid to go to Winterfell. Oh, she wants to. She wants to go to Robb’s home by his side as his wife and turn it into her new home. She wants to stretch her charity work up to the Northern towns and start new ones, build glasshouses in every village to spread all the world’s produce to those who only have grain, be their Lady of Winterfell and have their love. She wants to become the woman she never got to be under Father”s thumb. But she is afraid of the upcoming war against the dead, and against her own Father for control of her own life and the people within it. She is afraid to leave Essos and the joys she’s found here, for fear that they’ll never return again. _“Come my darling, homeward bound”_ echoes in her heart, reminding her that no matter where she goes, she will bring the river song with her.

She will bring her mother’s memory to Westeros, even if she cannot bring her uncle with her.

The Black Fang is expected to sail for the Isle of Manticores at first light, so the _Sun Maid_ shall also return to Braavos at dawn. She and her uncle talk for the rest of the night about Mama. Uncle Oberyn was close to her in childhood and adulthood, he put on puppet shows for her and she braided his hair into a thousand shapes, and he was the one to teach her High Valyrian while Mama lingered in her sick bed at Sunspear. “And you’ve never felt such sickness in your life, my little sunbeam? Will you truly be happy in the frozen North?”

“I will be ok, nuncle. My dear husband shall see to my rooms being as hot as the inside of a teapot.” She hugs him tight around the middle, and she feels him relax beneath her touch. He’s relieved by her strength, she notices. Her strength and happiness with Robb. “Please say that you’re happy for me. He loves me and I love him, and I sweat it’s nothing like Mama and—”

“You don’t need to justify it for me. I see the way he looks at you, how he sits when you’re by his side.” Uncle Oberyn smiles and it’s as lovely a sight as Uncle Doran’s smile, Arianne and Rosario’s smiles, Mama’s smile in the river. He pulls himself from his embrace, then gets on his knee before her. “I swear myself, in front of all the gods in the world known and unknown, to you. My sword is yours, as is my life and death. When the Long Night comes, the Black Fang and the Red Viper fight for the Sun Dragon and her Young Wolf.” There are tears in his eyes, and in Rhaenys’s own. He kisses her hand and murmurs, “May the gods keep you well, my little sunbeam. And may you live the life your mother always dreamed for you.”

Dawn rises dark and velvet with the moon still hanging low in the sky and the air still reeking of sweetness and rot. Rhaenys does not cry when she must part from her uncle. She has his old letters and promises of new letters now that Father and Lord Varys cannot stop her; he is alive, and none shall take her from him without her fighting tooth and nail. As his final parting gift, he gives Robb a sturdy spear made of a strangely light yet strong woods from Yi Ti and tipped with Valyrian steel and tells him to use it well. For Rhaenys, he gifts her a gold ring set with a ruby from a cord around his neck. “It was your mother’s,” he says. “She must be so proud to see the woman you are today.”

With a finally hug and kiss goodbye, he leaves for lands she may never see in her lifetime. And the _Sun Maid,_ with all of its passengers human and dragon, sails up the Rhoyne against the current. Rhaenys closes her eyes and imagines them slipping through the water like rocks skipping against a pond, like ripples in the Blackwater, like the song flowing from her lips. _“Moon river, wider than a mile, we’re after the same rainbow’s end, waiting around the river’s bend.”_

Volantis melts away like morning mist behind them, and onwards they sail to their destiny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter in Essos! Next chapter we are in Winterfell and officially ending the first part of this story!
> 
> The magic is returning to the world, not just through dragons and water witches but through monsters. This is a very important plot element and is me bringing this AU’s setting to a “higher fantasy”. A Song of Ice and Fire is in the epic/high fantasy genre, a very good example of it, but there’s some differences between it and something like The Lord of the Rings or The Witcher series. And we’re definitely heading in that direction.
> 
> I’d like to thank every lovely person for giving kudos and commenting on this story! I know it’s a bit hard to jump into a hard fantasy setting so thank you for sticking around!
> 
> For those interested: The bit of song Rhaenys sings is “Moon River” by Henry Mancini, Johnny Mercer and Audrey Hepburn. It’s the song from Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and I thought it a lovely edition to Rhaenys’s Book of River Songs (especially since I can’t keep using “All Is Found” lol)
> 
> I’ve based Volantis (and all of Essos) on Mediterranean cultures, especially Renaissance Italian states. Braavos is Florence, Pentos is Genoa, Volantis is Rome, the Disputed Lands are like the Italian Wars, Norvos and Qohor are Ferrara and other hotspots of non-Catholic Italy since Norvos and Qohor are hardcore about alternative religion, etc. The Valyrian Freehold is ASOIAF’s Roman Empire, so the Free Cities are the descendants of that empire. The food that the gang eats in this chapter are foods that could be feasibly found in early Renaissance Rome with some fantasy leeway. Their pizza (yes, early Italians ate pizza!) was different than modern pizza because tomatoes have yet to be introduced to Essos from the ASOIAF version of the Americas, so a cheese and meat sauce was used instead. Pizzas back then were most popular in sweet desert form!
> 
> The Ghiscari cities (Astaphor, Yunkai and Meereen) are based on Levantine cultures, especially pre-biblical and biblical ones like Sumer, Assyria, and Babylon; and Ancient Egypt. The goddess Ishtar looks like a harpy (she wasn’t a mere harpy though, she was a goddess of many aspects of life and extremely powerful), some of the markings described on the buildings of the Ghiscari cities resemble the Gates of Ninevah, there’s literal pyramids and ziggurats everywhere, Meereen grows olives, I could go on. And all these empires crumbled, just like the Ghiscari Empire.
> 
> (Idk why they wear tokars/overly difficult and constricting saris but whatever saris are great and the tokars are thematically appropriate to the slaveholders)
> 
> Great Moraq (the island next to Qarth and Sothoryos) is based on Arabia and both pre-Islamic Arabic culture and the Ottoman Empire. I figured that since it’s so close to the Bay of Slaves and Qarth (in my story we don’t see Qarth but it’s basically Gandhara/ancient Pakistan meets Super Dark Sorcery), it’s influenced by both. The scarf that Robb wears is called a keffiyeh and is a traditional Saudi Arabian headdress. Great for keeping yourself cool in the desert!
> 
> And finally, I’ve decided that the “Sothoryos is full of savage ape men and diseases!!” element in ASOIAF is boring af so I’ve added in kingdoms in the southern part of the continent. I guess that instead of the Sahara, Sothoryos has the Green Hell that explorers keep getting trapped in. Maali is very obviously the Empire of Mali with Mansa Musa at its helm; Ilizwenba is based on the Xhosa people and the chiefdoms in South Africa (I added back in the “brindled skin” as something beautiful); and Eandan is based on the semi-nomadic Himba/OvaHimba people of northern Namibia whose women cover themselves in red ochre (I made it genetic here cuz Fantasy Rules™); they have bilateral paternal-maternal clans but in this fantasy story Eandan is matriarchal.
> 
> I hope that all makes sense! I love world history and learning about different cultures, and I wanted to put that into my worldbuilding. These locations will only come up again in passing once Rhaenys and Robb head to Winterfell, but they’re still there, you know?


	9. The Witch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update, I've been in and out of clinics trying to figure out if I have the flu or not. All of my tests came back "inconclusive" and it might just be bronchitis, orrrrr it is actually the flu and I'm going to drop dead in a couple days. Gotta love being an elementary school teacher when most of your students don't wash their hands with soap lmao

Viserys, Asha and Qarl part ways at Braavos, headed for Far Mossovy to trade with their Great Duke. Aemon and Daenerys are also summoned directly to Kings Landing by Father, who received Aemon’s letter during their sojourn to Volantis. They will be the ones to face his greed and wrath, as Rhaenys will not go back to Kings Landing again if she can help it. Let him try and take her husband and dragons from the North!

Daenerys cries to part with her brother, and Rhaenys wipes her own tears on the back of her hand. But Viserys assures her that he will write them both, and that technically he is not yet banished from White Harbor nor Oldtown so they will soon tire of his boresome presence. Asha gives her two bags full of obscenely beautiful jewelry and stilettos from Yi Ti and tells her to share the ugly ones with her sisters.

Rhaenys’s lip trembles when she hugs Aemon and Daenerys goodbye. “Don’t let Father ruin her dragons,” she murmurs into her brother’s ear. “And take care of yourself. I will be wroth to hear that you’ve becomes lined and careworn before your eight-and-tenth birthday.”

They promise to be well and make her promise that she won’t freeze to death. And with the _Sun Maid_ loaded with their gifts, Rhaenys and Robb sail for White Harbor. Sunchaser, Mooncatcher and Dreamfyre greet the astounded crew with dragon cries that would be ferocious had they not had tiny voices. They sun themselves on the deck, and snap at the fish caught by the crew. Rhaenys trains them, saying “Dracarys” in High Valyrian’s dragontongue to teach her new… pets? Children? She teaches her dragons how to cook their meat and they purr against her side in thanks.

She spends the fortnight’s journey having Robb quiz her about the Northern houses, lords and agriculture. Lyanna taught her children all she knew about her homeland, but Robb is Lord of Winterfell in the present day and knows what her stepmother doesn’t. Rhaenys learns about the infrastructure or lack thereof between rural villages and more major towns; how citizens of the winter town and nearby villages move into Winterfell’s massive castle and halls during the spring and summer when the crowds thin and there’s space to share; the names of each direwolf—Grey Wind for Robb, Lady for Sansa, Nymeria for Arya, Summer for Edwin, Cora for Branda, and Ghost the unclaimed albino wolf, with Lady and Nymeria in Kings Landing with their bonded pairs—and all the little quirks of Northern men.

Rhaenys also asks him about the little details she never got to learn in their whirlwind marriage. His favorite food are meat pies from his favorite cook Master Gage in Winterfell. He prefers the colors green and blue, and although he is loath to admit it, he likes pink as well. She has him smell all of her perfume bottles, and the scents of jasmine; lemon; and sandalwood are his favorites. She memorizes all this, like the way she’s memorizes the freckles across his cheekbones and shoulders.

They study Uncle Doran’s book of Dorne to see if there’s any information about river songs and water magic and find some information. “While it is known that Garin the Great and Nymeria’s son Doran could wield water with skill,” she reads aloud, “the vast majority of water witches were women. On account of more powerful spells requiring blood, and women shedding more blood than most.” She laughs at the innuendo and Robb makes a face. “Fear not, my love, I won’t be cutting your throat at night to do my dark witchcraft.” She smirks and sits on his lap, before kissing the hollow of his throat. “I rather like your neck as is.”

With the privacy now afforded by only the crew manning the ship and no guests to attend to, they explore each other as man and woman, wife and husband. She learns what he likes, and shows him what she likes, and it’s so hard to be quiet out of courtesy for the ship crew when he is such an enthusiastic student. She understands, if just a tiny bit, the delight that drive men and women to abandon their families. Not that she would ever abandon Robb—he is the only man she can ever imagine desiring, ever loving. And they celebrate that love more often that not; falling pregnant is a very valid concern when she and Robb are alone.

She hopes any child she is fated to have will be conceived and born in Winterfell; winter’s child born in summer. Maybe it will make her new people love her.

By the time they alight at White Harbor, Rhaenys feels both overly stuffed with information and woefully underprepared. She wears a russet red wool gown with a pale yellow kirtle and a leather belt, to show her house colors with pride but modestly; Rhaenys asks if Northern women wear headdresses and apparently only older married women do. She appreciates that, as hair nets and wimples are quite annoying to wear with her curls. Robb braids two locks of hair back from her face to join at the back of her head and adds a white silk flower where the hair meets. “We Northerners like to see our lovely ladies,” he teases. Rhaenys looks at her dragons with worry, wondering how they would be transported to Winterfell. Is there not a river they can sail up? Robb gives her a long stare, then raises his chin. “And we like to see up front the power these ladies have. We should bring the dragons with us.”

“Won’t it cause a panic?”

“It’ll cause a panic soon enough when they grow too large to hide in the stables. Better we rip this bandage off now, lest the king or other lords think that we’ve lied to them out of malice.” He holds out a hand and she takes it. “Do you trust me, Rhaenys? I know the Manderlys, they are stubbornly loyal to the Starks and powerful allies to have. If we show them the dragons and say how they are the first in the North to be trusted with this knowledge, their loyalty shall only grow stronger. We need as many shields as possible from your father’s greed if he decides to claim your dragons.”

Rhaenys slowly nods. “And with my plans for expanding the fleet—plans you yourself should have some credit for, my darling naval commander—we need White Harbor’s absolute support. Not that the offer of greater trade with Westeros, Essos and the Summer Isles should not entice them alone. And it would be a good test run before we bring the dragons to Winterfell, ‘tis true…”

He kisses her forehead. “Have faith in us. We won’t let you or them come to harm.”

They step onto the dock and Rhaenys observes the lands around her. The North in the bloom of summer is such a rich, verdant green that she can hardly believe it. To the far north she can see snowcapped mountains embrace the horizon; while the sea is still slate, it glitters like dark diamonds beneath the sun. Gigantic, whimsical clouds pile in the pale sky like raw cotton, in a full spectrum of white and grey and blue. The North is _beautiful,_ how could she ever think it a frozen wasteland? She whirls around, inhaling the cold, biting sea salt air, and sees Robb stare at her with aching tenderness. She blushes under his gaze, especially when he laughs. He offers her arm, and with a kiss to his cheek, they go to greet the welcome party. Robb transforms once they are in front of the Manderly host. There is now steel in his spine where before was a friendly softness, a sternness in his jaw that invokes feelings of protection in Rhaenys. Before, he was Lord Robb. Now, he is Lord Stark of Winterfell.

Lord Wyman Manderly greets them with a flourish, bowing as far as his girth allows him and placing a kiss on Rhaenys’s hand. “White Harbor and New Castle are yours, my lord and lady.” He introduces his sons Wylis and Wendel, both as jolly and fat as he; Wylis’s wife Lady Leona who is the soul of sweet courtesy; and the granddaughters Wynafryd and Wylla. Wynafryd is Rhaenys’s own age with shrewd brown eyes, and Wylla with her pointedly bright green hair reminds her of Arya and Visenya. She knows from her own household that Northern ladies do not often take lady companions, but she wants the Manderly sisters at her side, and makes a note to ask Lord Manderly what it will take to part with his granddaughters. She needs their presence to solidify hers at Winterfell, and she must make preparations for the Long Night to come; making friends is but one way to tie a realm together.

Robb looks at Rhaenys and asks with his eyes if it’s time. Rhaenys nods and takes a step back towards the dock. “My lords and ladies, I thank you most kindly for your warm welcome. It is rare in the South for nobles to be noble, but my lord husband has assured me that the men and women of the North are honorable, and trustworthy. So,” she inhales, and exhales. “I reward this trust with trust of my own. Let it be known that dragons have returned to the world, to nest in the North. And you are the first to know.”

She calls out of her children, and with little shrieks they glide down from the _Sun Maid’s_ decks to land by her feet. Mooncatcher is still unsteady with her flight and nearly falls from the air, but she catches the dragon much like catching a leaping child. She giggles when Mooncatcher licks her cheek in thanks.

The effect is immediate. All the dockworkers freeze, and some of them even gasp and shout in shock. Lord Manderly’s jaw gapes along with his sons, and Lady Leona looks ready to faint. But Wynafryd and Wylla are far braver than most people their age, and they step forward. “Where did you find dragons, my lady princess? Did you sail all the way to Asshai?” Wylla peers into Sunchaser’s eyes with curiosity overpowering her fear. “I read once that dragons live in the Shadowlands.”

“Princess Daenerys has three dragons of her own that came from Asshai, so you’re not far from the truth.” Rhaenys carefully puts Wynafryd’s hand close to Mooncatcher’s snout so the dragon can sniff her and know her. “These dragon eggs came from Dragonstone to Braavos, if I have my history right. Magic is returning to the world, and now the direwolves of Winterfell have new companions.”

“Are they tame?” Lord Manderly asks.

Rhaenys shakes her head. “I dare say not, my lord. But neither are direwolves nor people, and they all share a similar intelligence.” Mooncatcher snorts and rubs her midnight scales against Wynafryd's hand. “And they all share good sense. It seems my dragons know how trustworthy your daughters are, my lord.” She smiles at them all. “And who are we to question dragons?”

It works. The Manderlys puff up with pride at being accepted by both the Lord and Lady of Winterfell plus living dragons, and they are mollified that Rhaenys’s dragons won’t tear their flesh from their bones without sudden notice. They are led to New Castle with the dragons in a palanquin, since Rhaenys fears that “they will be troubled by the smallfolk’s awe”/that they will smell meat roasting and ravage a poor butcher’s shop. Wynafryd and Wylla interrogate her about Braavos and Volantis, Kings Landing and her charity there. “We’ve heard about it up here, is it true you walked the streets with orphans to give them alms even though everything there is covered in shit?” Lord Wylis reprimands Wylla’s tongue and she rolls her eyes. “Forgive me, my lady princess. Covered in…refuse?”

“No need to apologize, my lady. Kings Landing shared more in common with a pigsty than White Harbor. My lord father never let me go far from the Red Keep,” Rhaenys admits, “but my sisters the princesses Visenya and Lysella are still rather young to make alms rounds and my stepmother the queen is always busy, so I would convince him to let me go.”

Neither sister, nor their family, seem very positive about Lyanna’s children or Lyanna. Robb did say that the North remembers, and she herself remembers how the Starks could hardly look at Lyanna at the wedding. It’s cold and cruel of her to think, but Rhaenys wonders how this cool antipathy towards her siblings could be in Rhaenys’s favor. Perhaps they will forgive her “Southron vanities” and Dornish looks if she’s preferred over the twins. And there’s the matter of what Uncle Doran wrote about in his letter…no, she cannot think of such wicked treason now. She makes a silent prayer of apology and penitence to the gods for her resentful nature.

They feast at New Castle, and Rhaenys acquaints herself to proper Northern food. Honeyed chicken served with roasted potatoes and carrots; freshly baked brown oatbread with warm honey butter; cod cakes arranged around a winter squash; haggis with neeps and chestnuts; beef-and-bacon pie, steak-and-kidney pie, lamprey pie, so many pies; and crisp apples served alongside tart berries. To her delight, she likes most of it, since the heaviness and creaminess is a comfort. She loves the honeyed chicken; winter squash; steak-and-kidney pie; and blackberries the most. Some of the food goes down with more effort. Robbs laughs as Rhaenys chokes down the cod cakes and haggis. “It’s not that they’re bad,” she defends herself in a huff, “it’s just that…we can do better. I’m sure we will. More spice is essential.” A few ounces of ground dragonpeppers and nutmeg would make haggis far more enjoyable.

The dragons like haggis at least. Lord Manderly booms in laughter. “At this rate they’ll be more Northern than my draft horse,” he says and Rhaenys sags down with relief.

By the time they must continue to Winterfell, Rhaenys gets what she wants: loyalty, assimilation of the dragons into the North, and the Manderly sisters as ladies. Rhaenys is blunt with Lord Manderly that she wants Northern ladies of strong stock as her companions to help her run Winterfell and to make strong marriages to hold together the North, especially with the threat coming from the far North. She does not yet tell him it’s the army of the undead, as that will ruin his limited trust in her, but she does say that famine and death from the cold come alongside unknown invaders. And he, compelled by the existence of dragons, allows it. Wylla comes with them immediately in the misty morning, with Wynafryd to follow in a moon once her obligations as New Castle’s heiress are wrapped up. Rhaenys asks her, “Is Wynafryd your father’s heir or is your uncle’s?” Rhaenys knows the answer, but she wants to know how her new lady feels about the future.

Wylla wrinkles her nose. “If my father had any sense Wyn would be his heir, but male blood is best I suppose.” Rhaenys makes a face in return, and Wylla links arms with her. “I think we’ll be the closest of friends, my lady princess.”

“If you let me call you Wylla, you can call me Rhaenys.” Rhaenys sighs lightly. “I think I’ve heard enough of “my lady princess” to last a lifetime.”

“Rhaenys it is,” and Wylla sets herself up to become one of Rhaenys’s dearest companions in Winterfell. They sail down the White Knife to a dock near Winterfell, and Rhaenys has a flash of insight: there are little paved roads in the North, but what about the rivers? The White Knife is the major river in the North, with others such as the Weeping Water and the Broken Branch connecting to major settlements, but there are precious little waterways connecting more rural areas. What a sight it would be, to recreate Braavos in the North…

Winterfell looms above them and her breath leaves in a rush. By the gods, Winterfell is massive! The Red Keep and a good quarter of Kings Landing could fit within its curtain walls! And it is of marvelous design, grey and slate stone rising to the heavens in great towers with sharply pointing roofs to protect the castle from snowfall. She can see the main castle through the mist like a vision, Winterfell’s Great Hall and minor halls blooming around it like winter roses. She can even see the godswood within the inner walls, the tops of the glossy green leaves and the red of the weirwood heart tree. Rhaenys asks Robb, “And you’re sure that you’re wicked barbarians? Perhaps Brandon the Builder should’ve given Aegon the Conqueror some building tips.”

“I’m afraid he lived near a thousand years before you Targaryens came to Dragonstone.”

“Ah, fair enough. Still could’ve left him a building print.” Wylla laughs at her cheek. Rhaenys cajoles her dragons to be sweet and not eat the Stark direwolves since that would make her most unhappy. Sunchaser trills at her; she takes that as a good sign.

Lord Benjen and Lady Catelyn meet them at the gates with Edwin, Branda and the rest of their gigantic household, along with Grey Wind. In her mind, Grey Wolf was the size of a large hound but no larger; in truth, he is the size of a pony. Rhaenys gapes at Grey Wolf just as the Starks gape at her dragons. Then Grey Wind howls in greeting Robb, and the dragons shriek not in aggression or anger but in greeting. Rhaenys feels this beneath her skin, just like the river song, and isn’t too surprised when they meet each other in the middle and go about sniffling and pulling at each other. Robb strides forward and hugs his shocked mother and stepfather. “We have much to talk about.” Grey Wind licks Dreamfyre’s eye and the little dragon snorts and coughs in annoyance; if direwolves could look mischievous, then Grey Wind would be cheekier than Visenya after dyeing Aemon’s smallclothes pink. “But first, the godswood.”

Robb leads Rhaenys through the massive corridors across Winterfell, and inside the air is heated like a spring day in the South. She knows that the walls have hot spring water flowing behind the rock, yet it’s something else to actually feel its warmth. In a sentimental way, it reminds her of Robb. Rhaenys nods at the chambermaids and service workers curtsying to her and memorizes their faces for later. They reach the godswood gated behind a magnificently carved door, a door that sends a thrill of apprehension up her spine. What if the old gods reject her and her water magic? They enter the godswood where all the sound from the castle is muffled into a dull silence. It is midday yet underneath the canopy it’s dark as twilight. She can smell the damp scent of the earth and the mulching leaves, the wetness soaking in the moss-covered trees; it smells primordial, foreign to her body raised in the center of the seven kingdoms. Rhaenys shivers and Robb offers her his cloak. The cold ache in her limbs comes not from the air alone, but she appreciates his scent wrapping around her.

The woods are three acres large, and at the heart of the godswood across from the rooftop of the Guest House, lies the weirwood heart tree. The red leaves blaze against the green, the white bark seems to glow in the darkness. A great face is carved into the tree trunk, weeping red sap, and the sight is both revolting and awe-inspiring. Here Rhaenys stands before the old gods and she clutches to the river song in her heart. She cannot bow, bend or break, yet here in this vast loveliness of her husband’s land is a place that makes her fear.

She and Robb kneel before the weirwood, in the wet earth slightly sticky with sap. Robb clasps her hand and speaks in a strong, unwavering voice, “Rhaenys of Houses Targaryen and Stark comes before the weirwood tree. A woman grown and married, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessing of the gods.” Then they bow their heads and pray.

Rhaenys has prayed before the Seven and before the Mother, and even that one aborted prayer in the Red Keep’s wood the night before her marriage. But now she squeezes her eyes shut and prays as fervently as she’s ever prayed before. _“Old gods of the North, please accept my marriage to Robb. He is a good and strong man, and I love him dearly, and I desire to be a good wife for him and a good Lady of Winterfell. Please do not take offense of the Mother Rhoyne’s river song in my heart, of the Dornish blood in my veins. Please bless our marriage, and whatever children we may have. And please bless whatever magic I may wield, and whatever witching I may do, for I do it for the sake of the North and all the kingdoms.”_

**_Daughter of the sun and dragon,_ ** **_Joy of the Rhoyne, wife of the wolf—be welcome here._ **

A wind blows against her face and fills her lungs with air smelling richly of earth and moss and life. She looks beneath her eyelashes at Robb, whose lips move with silent prayer, and she squeezes her hand in solidarity. When they rise, Robb declares to his family, “Now she is a truly wedded Stark.”

Lady Catelyn smiles, and pulls Rhaenys into a hug. “Another daughter for our family, we are blessed.” She tells Rhaenys to call her simply Catelyn, and Robb’s stepfather tells her to call her Benjen. “No titles in our family, we’re a bit more rustic than that. Now come with me to the Great Hall, and please explain what dragons like to eat.”

Robb’s family—her new family—along with Wylla at Rhaenys’s invitation gather in the Great Hall cleared of tables so that Robb and Rhaenys may explain themselves. The dragons and the direwolves play on the massive free space, occasionally snapping at each other but otherwise friendly. Rhaenys gasps when Branda presents her with her dear old cat Balerion; while Balerion meows at Rhaenys in scolding for daring to leave his side, Branda smiles with dimples. “Sansa said you might feel sad to be away from your cat now that you live in Winterfell and had him sent back with us. He’s already made your bed his, I’m afraid.”

“It’s not my side of the bed he’ll be nesting in,” Rhaenys teases Robb. Balerion purrs in her lap and she holds in a fit of giggles. The dragons truly must be part cat and part lizard, since when they’re not sunning themselves or stalking mice they’re acting just like her fat cat. Rhaenys meets the kind but nervous gazes of her good mother and father. “And the dragons most likely will be sharing beds with us when it suits them. Of course, they came to be about is a much more exciting story than the attitudes of cats.”

She explains the path that lead her to Robb and to the Mother Rhoyne, and how Daenerys woke six dragons from hatching stone. That the direwolves and the river song heralded the return of magic to the world, with monsters coming to life even across the seas, and they all must prepare for the upcoming war with walking death itself. Robb adds detail, explaining his dreams where he changes into Grey Wind’s skin at night. Catelyn pales to a sickly off-white, especially when Edwin and Branda confirm that they too sometimes take the shape of their direwolves. Wylla declares that she’s seen a kracken off the shores of White Harbor, glimmering with deathly lights.

Magic has come to the world. But Rhaenys sees that pious Catelyn and world-weary Benjen don’t believe them, not truly. She squeezes her hands together, refusing to wring them when she knows that Robb is concerned by it, but needing to hold in her frustration. Dragons live! Dragons are in their halls playing with their direwolves! What more proof do they need?! Catelyn excuses herself to go pray in the sept, and Benjen leads Robb away for a private talk, and Rhaenys stews in her seat. Edwin pats her hand. “I believe you, Rhaenys. I’ve seen it before in a dream.”

“What have you seen?” Rhaenys appreciates the belief in his lovely grey eyes; he and Branda are grey eyed and red haired, a perfect mix of their parents, and she longs for a child who looks similar. Robb’s hair, her skin, eyes all their own…

“It was an odd dream, with a raven with three eyes sitting on a girl’s head. The raven showed me you witching. You’ll be the first water witch in a long line of witches.” There’s a certainty to his voice that sets her on edge and makes her heart beat faster. Edwin smiles a carefree boy’s smile. “I don’t know how you’ll do it, but I’m excited. Do you think you can make a river all the way from here to the Neck? My friends Meera and Jojen Reed live there, and I don’t like having to travel on horseback for so long to visit them.”

That night, after Robb and Rhaenys break in their new bed and all the morning household are asleep, Edwin’s whimsical requests echoes in her mind. And suppose she could connect the White Knife to the Fever river? Suppose she could in truth make North like Braavos, and allow its people access to clean water and fishing and transportation? She doubts Catelyn and Benjen would doubt her story then.

She silently slips out of bed, and stares at Robb sleeping in bed. She hesitates, wondering if she should wake him. If her magic doesn’t work, she’d be worrying him for nothing…but he trusts her. She should keep that trust nurtured and safe within his breast; she should trust him to see this strange side of her that’s beyond reason. Rhaenys shakes his shoulder. He wakes in an instant, rubbing his eyes. “Rhaenys? What’s wrong?”

“I’m going to be witching tonight,” she whispers. “You ought to come with me, in case something happens.” Robb looks terrified in the moonlight, but she kisses his forehead to soothe his furrowed worry lines. “Hush, I’ll be fine. I’m mostly worried that I’ll…I don’t know, set something on fire on accident. I’m rather new at this. Now where are your clothes?” They dress quickly in their shifts and simple clothes meant for lounging around in privacy. Then by the light of a candle, they head into the dark corridor.

They go to the library tower and some thought, and they bring with them the sacred jug of Rhoyne water still glowing faintly within its glass; a deep bowl that carried fruit at one point; and her Valyrian steel dagger. She doubts she will meet any rapers or bandits in her new castle, especially with her husband at her side, but she cannot be sure after the fate Mama and Aegon met in their own castle. Robb flinches when she explains this and wraps his arm around her waist. In the library, mercifully absent of its maester or any late-night visitors, he shows her a gigantic topographic map of the North carved on a giant table. Much like the Painted Table at Dragonstone, it shows every inch of the North down to the details of half-abandoned hamlets nestled against mountains. She can see how centralized the population is around regional centers, and unlike the Crownslands there are few roads or rivers connecting each one. She traces the wood, eyes glazing over. She can see where she would build roads, erect bridges, carve dams. But she cannot do that tonight. No, she can do something else.

“Robb, can you pray for me?” She furrows her brows. “I’ve never done this before, and I’d like support.” Robb kisses her swiftly, then kneels on the ground and prays to the old gods and to the Crone to guide her. Rhaenys’s vision softens, blurs around the edges, and she swears that there’s a faint corona refracting around his lips.

She sets to her witching; she knows the spell by heart, even though not a moon before she was entirely ignorant to it. Rhaenys pours the sacred Rhoyne water into the bowl until it’s half full. She grimaces, as she very much does not relish hurting herself or her soft olive skin that she’s prideful of. But the magic demands it, and she slices the side of her upper forearm. Just two inches, nothing more and nothing too deep to create an ugly scar, or so she hopes. Robb flinches to see her hurt herself but doesn’t break his prayer string and its hazy light. She bleeds into the bowl until it’s equally blood and water, and not a drop more. Rhaenys inhales, exhales, and whispers a song into the night. The song is ancient, the song of a Mother joining with her wild daughter Noyne and darkling daughter Qhoyne. A song of mothers and daughters, water and earth and blood.

She dips her right hand into the bowl. And with painstaking slowness and care, she draws with her left pointer finger along the map. Paths along the White River branching up from Winterfell to Deepwater Motte; west to the river in the Rills; and down to Torrhen’s Square. From the Dreadfort to Hornwood; from Last Hearth to the Dreadfort; from the Last River to the Bay of Ice and down to the White Fork again. And finally, from Winterfell down between the hills of the Barrowlands to the Neck where it meets the source of the Fever near Moat Cailin and the swamps where water and earth are but the same.

Rhaenys blinks when she’s done and looks down at the bowl. The bowl is bone dry, nothing left to show it was nothing more than a simple bowl. Her hand, however, is ashen white, and her pale arm oozes an oddly pale blood. Her finger bleeds as well; blood crusts all over the map where she drew her paths. A quiet certainty that she made a mistake in her witching settles in her lower stomach like lead. She needed more blood for this magic, didn’t she? Cold sweat beads on her skin and her hands shake. The lead in her lower stomach twists, heaves, and then blood splatters on the ground between her feet. Ah, that cannot be good. She looks at the map, then at the blood, then nothing at all. Robb screams her name as she collapses to the ground.

She comes to just after dawn, swaddled in blankets with a fire roaring in the hearth. Robb is seated in an armchair speaking with Winterfell’s castellan Ser Rodrik Cassel about…she can hardly understand their words, her head still swims with the language of the Rhoyne. But she can hear the steadfastness in Robb’s voice, the steady calm where Ser Rodrik sounds alarmed. Her body feels like delicate Myrish lace after being washed with lye and put through the laundry mangle a dozen times: worn out, frayed and distorted. Her body aches hard enough that she fears her teeth will fall out of her head, her bones sliding out from her skin. Someone had the foresight to put a wrapped heating stone on her lower stomach which soothes the pain there, but heating stones and blankets do nothing for her ravenous thirst.

She coughs and winces from the pain in her ash dry throat. Robb whirls around and comes to her side in an instant. “Thank the gods, you’re alright.” There fear and fury and relief in his voice, and he tells Ser Rodrik, “Tell my mother and father that she’s awake.” Rhaenys asks for water, and he holds a cup of steaming honey tea to her lips. There’s even lemon and ginger inside and she aches for Arianne. She gulps down three cups of tea, and nearly chokes in her haste. He pulls her into his arms like a white knight carrying a lifeless maiden from a tower, which is not too far from the truth judging from how faint she feels. “Rhaenys, what did you do?!”

“Did it work?” Rhaenys blinks the bleariness from her eyes, and desperately wishes for a bath in rosewater and jasmine oil. She cannot see out the windows, the freezing morning mist having descended upon Winterfell, but she can hear people yelling outside about rivers and magic and the Lady Witch and the direwolves swimming where they ought not to—she shivers. “Is there not a river outside the castle walls? I hope I didn’t sink the winter town.”

Robb shakes his head, looking as if he wishes to scream at her but also wanting to kiss her. He carries her and her bundle of blankets directly to the courtyard, and to the massive gates. Rhaenys mumbles about walking like a grown woman and he snaps, “You’re as pale as a weirwood, I doubt you can even stand. Why didn’t you tell me you planned _this_? When I saw you hit the floor, hardly a drop of blood left in your body,” his voice cracks, “I thought you hurt badly, or even dead.”

She forces herself up so she can kiss his cheek. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that I needed more than just one woman’s worth of blood…I wouldn’t have done it if I knew. Forgive me.” Robb huffs that this is the second time she’s apologizes for risking her life, and she flushes in shame. Foolish of her to assume that one witch alone could carve half a dozen rivers alone. Perhaps the song must be sung and bled by a group, or that it works best with the Rhoyne’s full magic instead of a simple bowl. Rhaenys chides herself for distressing her husband and her household, they must think her a foolhardy idiot now!

But the servants and household who see her look at her not with chastisement or anger, but with awe and no small amount of fear. Robb finally sets her own outside the gates where Catelyn and Benjen are talking heatedly with a group of hunters and scouts. “It goes clear down tae Torrhen’s Square,” one of the scouts says, “the water’s clean and clear and full of fish the entire way. Even the earth beneath’s got silt fit for farming. It’s a blessing if I dare say so meself, but I cannae say where it’s come from.”

Catelyn notices Rhaenys’s presence, and she looks at her like Rhaenys is not flesh and blood but something more terrifying. Does Rhaenys, pale and bundled like a sickly child, truly inspire such fear? Benjen looks as grave as a silent sister, as the ghosts of Brandon and Eddard Stark over Winterfell. Catelyn trembles and asks, “Did you do this? Is this what you meant by the river song?”

Rhaenys nods. “Six new rivers in total, seven if you consider the White Knife forking to Deepwood Moote, Torrhen’s Square and the Rills. The old gods blessed it.” The scouts and hunters swear by those gods, and Rhaenys winces. “I saw the map. The North is vast and needs better transportation and food for the war coming for us. And what better road is a river?” Her head and body ache, and she asks Robb, “Could you bring me to it? I’d like to see what I did in person.”

Robb leads her there with his parents, and Rhaenys hears the whispers grow stronger now that she’s admitted it. Witch princess, Dornish witch, dragonblood and river magic brought to the North by the Young Wolf’s Lady Witch. Rhaenys’s eyes burn. She should’ve known this would ruin her image in the eyes of her people. What if Lord Manderly calls back Wylla and she loses his loyalty? Has she destroyed everything? What has she done?!

Robb must feel her shaking against his side, because he slows down and kisses her temple. “What’s wrong, my sweet?” At least his voice is pure kindness again.

“They hate me.”

He laughs, and his voice is as incredulous as when Daenerys hatched dragons from stone. “Hate you? Rhaenys, they adore you.”

“But they call me a witch. Witches are loathed, the Seven say that they are—”

“Aye, but the Seven do not rule here beyond my mother’s sept.” He sweeps his arms at the people whispering and staring at her. Rhaenys searches their eyes but does not see genuine hate, and she’s grown up learning how to see the hidden hate in a man’s eyes. She sees more of that awe and fear, and lots of shock, and—does she see happiness there? Robb says, “They all heard the old gods whisper in their dreams about the Long Night and a gift from the river. And they all came out in their sleeping shifts to see that gift for themselves.”

He pauses, looking equal parts concerned and awed. Then he kisses her neck and whispers in her ear, “When I put you to bed and begged for your life in front of the heart tree in the godswood, they spoke to me. About how I must learn both the Old Tongue and the runes we’ve all lost meaning of. That will be my burden and honor to wield for the Long Night, as the rivers are for you.”

They finally arrive at the river, and Rhaenys watches the direwolves and dragons frolic in the water, snapping at the freshwater fish within. Edwin and Branda shriek with laughter as they play with the smallfolk children by the river’s shore. Wylla watches them with her feet in the water, and when she sees Rhaenys she smiles at her with pure wonder in her eyes. And the earth is rich beneath their feet, a promise of crops that could be planted even now in the late summer. Heather grows along the riverbanks, glistening amethyst with the delicate morning frost on their petals. Grey Wolf bounds over to their side and barks, before sniffing Rhaenys and licking the remnants of dried blood from her arm.

Robb kisses her again, this time on her lips. “They call you witch, aye. And Good Queen Bodi was our Witch Queen too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re finally at Winterfell! Now Robb can come into his own as Lord of Winterfell in this story, and Rhaenys as the Lady Witch of Winterfell!
> 
> I’ve also accomplished one of the major goals I have planned for this story: river transformation magic in Westeros! As shown in the chapter it’s a very powerful spell that requires a blood sacrifice equal to the water used if not more and reeeeeally shouldn’t only be performed by one witch. Had a) Rhaenys not used the special water from the source of the Rhoyne, and b) had Robb not been there to pray to the old gods for help, she would’ve bled out and died. A very abrupt end for our heroine. As it is, she survived losing about a third to a half of her blood content and (unknown to her and Robb as she was only a couple weeks along) miscarrying her child :(
> 
> Thankfully, she had the proper water and the proper heritage being a direct descendent of Nymeria; and most of all, she trusted Robb enough to bring him along. The river song’s riskiest songs have the highest rewards. Trust is good for relationships for reasons obvious and not so obvious, like preventing your wife from bleeding out in the library after doing blood magic lol
> 
> Since these rivers were born from Rhoyne’s water, it’s now blessed and can be used to “seed” more rivers once she runs out of Rhoyne water. Yes I want more rivers in my late medieval fantasy country, rivers are lifeblood when you don’t have modern infrastructure.
> 
> Considering how…xenophobic and conservative, the North can be, it’s a big stretch to say that they immediately accept Rhaenys and her magic. And don’t be tricked, there are powerful lords that don’t like it. But the people immediately around Winterfell are exceeding loyal to the Starks, and the old gods rustling “Be not afraid, the river is good y’all” in their dreams helps a lot. Religion is powerful in ASOIAF and sometimes that can be overlooked instead of being recognized as a sort of magic within itself.
> 
> Robb himself will have a special power as commanded of him by the old gods: runic magic, or runecraft, as used by the First Men and lost to time. His marriage to Rhaenys fulfills not only the Pact of Ice and Fire (union of Houses Stark and Targaryen), but a pact between the North and South, the first men and new men, songs of the old gods and the Mother Rhoyne. And both of their destinies elevate them to new powers thought long lost. My thanks to The Jingo for suggesting this for Robb, since it never occurred to me to give Robb something as cool as that and I’m mildly disappointed in myself lol
> 
> The next chapter will take place over five years in a special format. I’d like to spend more time showing Rhaenys getting used to being Lady of Winterfell, and that’s explored next chapter but in great speed because I need to make a time jump to the second part of this story. If anyone is interested, I can write drabbles about her first five years at Winterfell in a separate story.
> 
> I used the video “The True WINTERFELL according to the books, EPIC 3d model, tour and comparison” by Shadiversity on YouTube for my version of Winterfell. Sorry HBO, but your Winterfell is lame af and not deserving of Brandon the Builder’s glory.


	10. The Letters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the transition chapter between Part I and II of this story! I’m afraid that I have to take a week-long hiatus on updating, since I do indeed have the flu and it’s hit me like a garbage truck. Yay. Might even be two weeks until the next chapter, since I’m in no shape to do more writing and editing right now. Hopefully I get better soon, I’m on medical leave from work so it’s literally my job rn to sleep until it goes away lol

To His Grace King Rhaegar I, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm,

By now you may have heard rumors about recent events in the North. I wish to clear the air and tell you the absolute truth of those events and my intentions. I was gifted with a marvelous power during my trip to Essos at the same time my royal aunt the Princess Daenerys and I were gifted dragons. As your ever loyal and true daughter, I thought to use that power and improve the North’s geography so that the North may become more interconnected for trade and the well-being of its people. Your propechies are correct, Father. The Long Night is coming and we must prepare for it, so I have taken the initiative to provide greater transportation in the North. When the armies of the dead come, now there are more rivers to transport troops to the Wall to face them, or perhaps other locations that Your Grace feels is best. My husband and I defer to your judgment and decree on the upcoming war.

As Your Grace is aware of, I am also in the possession of three growing dragons, as is the Princess Daenerys. Rest assured that no marauder or Valryian-blooded thief shall part our dragons from our possession. My three are safe with me in Winterfell, as the direwolves of House Stark have bonded with them. Has Your Grace become acquainted with the direwolves of the ladies Sansa and Arya? I do believe that they are of similar size and temperament, and ever loyal to their bonded pairs. Regardless, my royal brother the Crown Prince Aemon and the Princess Daenerys are far more suited than I am at explaining the existence of these dragons. I defer to their knowledge about these matters, as I must now devote myself to being Lady Stark of Winterfell.

Your loyal and humble daughter Rhaenys

* * *

Dear Rhaenys,

What in the seven hells is happening?! I have a lot more words for the things I’ve been hearing which aren’t fit to write on paper, and if you don’t send a novel by raven within this moon I will sail for Winterfell and establish my birthing chamber in your bedroom. Then you can hear those words for yourself!

Water witching and dragons and the Faith screeching about abominations and the king near shitting himself on the throne—you never do anything in half measures, do you my sunbeam? Father nearly fainted to read the king’s official declaration about the matters. Excellent, I cannot be more impressed by your ability to strike terror into the hearts of doddering old men who ought to know better than to cross the Sun Dragon of Dorne. Or is it not Lady Witch now? A woman can never have too many titles, like perfumes and dresses and cousins. I await your letter, and hopefully I can present you another niece or nephew without holding siege at Winterfell.

Love, Arianne

* * *

To the Lords and Ladies of the North; all landed knights; and prominent townspeople:

The Lord and Lady Stark at Winterfell will host a Grand Meeting in one moon’s time to address concerns and questions about recent events in the North. Everyone is welcome to come in person or send representatives to take part in this council, which will take place over the span of a fortnight so that everyone will have time to say their part. Accommodations with room and board will be provided at no cost to those who arrive at Winterfell and the winter town. Guest right is ensured to all who partake in the council.

The Lord and Lady Stark at Winterfell

* * *

Dear Rhaenys,

Things are tense in the capital. Father sent out that declaration to calm the lords and Faith and Citadel, but he is far from mollified. He is incensed that there are six dragons, and three of them at Winterfell instead of in the Dragonpit with Daenerys’s dragons. He and Mother scream at each other all night because Mother is…I don’t know what’s wrong. But she is in turns furious that his prophecies have a grain of truth, and that it’s not the full truth. Nothing makes her happy. Of course, your letter to Father terrified them both, not that they’ll ever admit it. You have a way of saying threats as lovely as Sansa’s embroidery. I doubt he has the military strength to seize your dragons anyway, since who would dare strike against a witch whose husband is the Stark in Winterfell? A man with dragons maybe, and that’s the other crux of his anger.

Daenerys prefers Nyserix, and Lysella sought out Rhaelaxes the second they met. But neither I, Visenya or Father have an affinity for Viserion. I think that’s upsetting Father the most, that he cannot yet be a dragonrider. He plans to force you to bring your dragons down here to see if he will bond with one of them, and I fear for what that will mean. They are yours, and Daenerys’s, and I doubt the lords will seek kindly that he is claiming what is not his. That, and him being a dragonrider when he already burned down Pyke. He speaks of you often as a wayward daughter who left her poor father, which is hilarious since he married you to Robb without your prior knowledge.

He wants to marry me to Daenerys immediately and drag us straight to the Sept of Baelor. Mother is blocking this because of Daenerys’s young age and because we’ve both made it clear that we won’t go willingly. But Father is still the king, and I can’t leave like Viserys did when that would trigger war. I’m unsure of what to do.

What do you say to this? Send a message in our usual cipher and I’ll tell Father what your position is. You once said that he listens to me most, and I am ashamed to admit this is true. I think I can convince him to stay his hand if you give me the right words.

Your brother, Aemon

* * *

Dear Aemon,

Remind Father that the Lady Stark of Winterfell is also the Princess Targaryen and the Lady Witch, and that to separate a dragon from its dragon-mother is an abomination in the eyes of Old Valyria. None of my dragons shall leave my side unless they are claimed by a rider, and that rider must come to the North and be accepted by them without coercion. He will do well to remember that for Daenerys’s dragons as well, since Nyserix is far less friendly than Dreamfyre. And considering how close my dragons have become to the Winterfell direwolves, he will face a pack of angry horse-sized wolves if he tries to take away their playmates.

If that isn’t blunt enough for him, tell him this as nicely as you can: if he steals my dragons, or puts either Robb or I into positions where he can take the dragons for himself, there will be war. Remind him that your mother will probably murder him if he wages war against her homeland again. Remind him that Dorne will not suffer to see another one of its princesses killed by a Targaryen. But do it nicely! I am not waging treason or war against Father by refusing to turn over my dragons, I’m simply asserting that they are mine and he married me to the North. If he didn’t want me North with whatever treasures I happen to come across, that’s a problem for him alone. I’m not about to overthrow him!

I hate to say it, since I know how reluctant you are about these matters, but you and Daenerys need to marry others as soon as you can. Mollify Father with vague promises of betrothing yourself to Daenerys and marrying her on her eight-and-tenth birthday, or when the dragons reach full size, or when the Long Night stretches—whatever he likes best. In truth, marry either Margaery, Shireen Baratheon, Desmera Redwyne, or Ysabel Royce. I can’t think of any better matches, I think Lady Shireen would be best considering her temperament and bloodlines but Margaery comes from a wealthy house and is dear to Daenerys. But do NOT marry Daenerys or our sisters. Literally anyone else but them, no matter what Father may say.

May the gods old and new preserve you. They know how burdened your back is from carrying Father through his fits of mania. Do the twins like the present I sent to them? They and I may be the only women in Westeros to possess treasures from Yi Ti, so that should soothe Visenya’s bruised ego. She’ll bounce back quickly enough, our sisters never let anything get them down.

Your sister, Rhaenys

* * *

To Her Grace Queen Lyanna of Houses Targaryen and Stark,

Forgive the sudden arrival of this raven. I’ll try and explain it shortly: Lord Roose Bolton and his heir Domeric have had a very bad fallout and it’s reached critical tension in the North. Do you think you can take in Lord Domeric into your household in Kings Landing? I swear that he is nothing at all like his father or his aunt and is a gentle young man who wishes to become a knight. Maybe he can be a squire to one of the Kingsguard, or a page, or a sworn sword to one of the princesses or ladies Stark, or a stable hand—anything is fine. I fear that if Domeric stays any longer in the North, it will not be a long stay.

I’ve sent five bottles of heather perfume via ship, hopefully it survives the voyage to Kings Landing. For the princesses and the ladies Stark, and for you since you once said that you miss the highland heather of the North. It truly is a sight to see it in the morning covered in frost. Your family in Winterfell sends their regards and love.

As you are my stepmother, you ought to know that I am with child and will give birth in five moons. I hope for a son with Stark features to honor his father and house.

Humbly, Lady Rhaenys Stark, Princess Targaryen

* * *

Dear Dany,

Don’t worry, I received your letter without interception. Lord Varys never set up a proper spy network north of Maidenpool and we will keep it that way. I will say that your encoding far outstrips mine—who taught you how to conjugate Old Rhoynish verbs with Myrish Valyrian? I certainly didn’t, and Aemon can hardly speak the common tongue as it is. If you’d like, Robb can teach you the Old Tongue as he’s been teaching me, and then our ciphers shall never be broken. I’m teaching my own spymaster such a cipher, and once she’s proficient in it I trust you to write her as well if I am ever indisposed.

With regards to your letter, I understand the fear you and dear Marg must be feeling. King Bastard (damn you and Viserys for tainting my pen!) will keep you under his thumb as long as he can to keep a modicum of control over your dragons. I’m honestly surprised he doesn’t have you and Marg confined to the Dragonvault! Considering some words that various acquaintances have whispered across the kingdoms, he needs those dragons to prevent an uprising against his rule. Lady Olenna will certainly castrate King Bastard if any harm comes to her granddaughter. My only comfort to offer you is that if war does indeed happen, Nyserix and Viserion and Rhaelaxes shall keep you and Marg safe. I know my own dragons will defend their pair of dragon-mothers to the death.

I also offer advice. While it would be much to King Bastard’s joy to marry you to Aemon since that all but assures that your children will be dragonriders, the Seven Kingdoms are rather sick of us Targaryens right now. Another incestuous closed marriage will ignite the kindling beneath our feet. Did Aemon tell you of the letter I sent him earlier? I outlined some of my thoughts there.

And you’ve already informed me that negotiations for your betrothal have stalled on account of King Bastard’s nonsense. I believe Lord Tyrell wants Marg on the throne with Aemon, but that the Rose Dowager wants something more substantial: trade routes to the other major producer in the realm that go through Highgarden first, as to make House Tyrell’s rule in the Reach more secure. You’ve told me enough tales about the roiling tension beneath the Reach’s sweet veneer, like root rot in a field of roses.

Therefore, I think you should push Willas towards a Reach lady of high standing and Gardener blood. Perhaps Melessa Tarly, or one of the Florent maids? It will break Willas’s heart but I think we all understand that having a political linchpin wife who can love him as he loves her will soothe that hurt. And then you in turn should marry ~~Lord~~ Ser Jonnel Arryn. Forgive the mistake, I just remembered he was knighted when we were in Braavos. Regardless, he is a kind and steadfast man from what I remember of him at the tourney, and as honorable as all the Arryns before him. Targaryens have married Arryns before so it will be hard to argue against it in an academic sense. Marry him and get the Vale on your side and bring some blood back into the Targaryen line before it collapses entirely. Gods know I fear that my future child will come out with dragon scales and a tail!

As for your Marg, Lord Royce’s heir is not that much older than she. While he’s too hot-headed for my tastes, I’ve a friendly acquaintance in Myranda Royce and she says that her cousin has a romantic side. The gods know that Marg would suffer in a marriage to a man who is melancholic. If you marry Ser Jonnel, and Marg marries Ser Robar, then you two will be safe in the Vale and safely together. And most of all, the famed Vale produce will go through Highgarden on its way to Reach tables to support Lord Willas and a somewhat Gardener bride. Any daughter that Marg has would then be in high running for next Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, to satisfy her family’s ambitions. Hammer into Lord Tyrell that Marg will never be queen while you and the twins still live and while dragons still play in the Dragonpit.

If all else fails, wed Aemon but both of you tell the High Septon that on account of your distaste for incest you will never consummate your marriage. King Bastard cannot force you to share a bed with Aemon and when Aemon finally takes the throne, you may wed appropriate partners. I hope this advice gives you an idea of what path to tread.

Yours, Rhaenys

* * *

Rhaenys,

I finally got a spy in the Dreadfort’s kitchen. It took quite the bribery, since most are too afraid to speak against Lord Bolton and I’ve marked the costs in your blue ledger.

You’re right: the Boltons and Dustins are decrying you as a Dornish whore and abomination. So far it’s only talk at the table, no actions and no letters between anyone but Lord Bolton and Lady Dustin. But judging from Lady Dustin’s notorious bitterness towards the Starks and Lord Bolton’s general...unsavoriness, I will direct the spy to double check every movement they make. I need another spy in their stables but my Maud is proficient enough for now. I will also get spies at Barrow Hall, hopefully a much less expensive endeavor.

Things are more positive in other parts of the North, and my father is singing your praises along with Grandpapa. There are some accusations of favoritism since House Manderly follows the Seven and you’re from the South, but everyone knows that the High Septon barely tolerates your witching and it’s endeared you to our suspicious and stubborn hearts. The mountain clans however are still negative and will probably be negative until you pump out seven sons of Stark coloring. Not much we can do there, except try and convince them to use the new rivers to their benefit.

Wylla

* * *

Dear Lady Rhaenys Stark, Princess Targaryen,

May the Seven keep and preserve you. I’m glad to hear that my books are an aid to you in Winterfell, especially with your child’s birth drawing ever closer. I agree with Lady Catelyn’s recommendation that you give some more responsibilities to her and to Lady Branda as you near confinement. I know that you enjoy the challenge of proving yourself, but you must rest your body. Your beloved mother, may the Seven keep her in comfort, was known to at least always lounge while keeping up with her duties on Dragonstone.

Winterfell sounds like a marvelous place to rest. My husband’s congestion never did improve even after moving to a higher elevated home, and the fresh air in the North sounds like a balm for him. We will make do with the excitement of Kings Landing to keep up his spirits. Your lord father the King and his Queen are energized by the rebirth of dragons and stay up at all hours discussing the future of the realm. My crone’s heart can hardly keep up with them, I’ll admit, as this is the expertise of younger, fresher souls. Lord Domeric is a breath of fresh air in the Queen’s household and is very protective of Ladies Sansa and Arya Stark. Perhaps they can take up the mantle for me.

If you haven’t yet decided on a governess or a septa for your child, I recommend a governess. The North outside of White Harbor and Lady Catelyn’s sept keeps to the old gods, as you must know by now. And there is a sort of pride in having a more secular education in a land that requires men and women to draw upon their own strengths. I know you will draw upon your own strengths in the coming years.

Yours truly, G. Bardwell

* * *

Dear Lady Rhaenys Stark, Princess Targaryen,

Bless you and your husband a thousand times over. My husband and I are on our way to Winterfell by the king’s command—I’ll be your babe’s governess and he WInterfell’s new silversmith. I’ll explain everything when I arrive.

Yours truly, G. Bardwell

* * *

Wylla,

I heard that Talia Forrester’s engagement to Gared Tuttle fell through and he joined the Night’s Watch at his father’s insistence. A shame that is, they seemed so much in love. Perhaps we should invite her into the lady’s circle? I have you, Wyn, Meera, Eddara and Alys already but Winterfell is big enough for another lady.

I’m stuck in confinement so I can’t see to the tensions between the Forresters and the Whitehills as closely as I’d like. Aid Robb in dismantling that sore point, we don’t need the Whitehills supporting the Boltons. They’ll be open to your suggestions since Houses Whitehill and Manderly both follow the Seven—do convince them I’m not a child-eating witch, that rumor is so lowbrow.

Rhaenys

* * *

Dear Arianne,

It’s a girl! Just as you guessed!

I commissioned a miniature portrait of her and sent it on the next raven so you may see her. We’ve named her Aliandra, a strong Martell name that sounds Northern enough to honor both sides of her blood. We call her Alia for short, as she’s too tiny a baby to have such a long name. A summer snow fell the day after her birth, and I feared that she would surely freeze to death. Of course, she is made of sterner stuff than I am. Arianne and Elia put together form Alia, do they not? Your little namesake even whines when she’s hungry in the same voice as you.

I’m entirely overwhelmed, I’ll admit. I’ve never known such joy and fear and victory and sorrow, sometimes I fear I’ll lose myself in all of these feelings. My heart breaks whenever she cries and I cannot soothe her immediately. My heart is rebuilt anew when she nurses at my breast and her tiny hand clenches around my finger. She has ten little fingers and ten little toes all with tiny little nails. She has red curls that I hope stay the same, and her eyes have the slightest hint of lilac to them so perhaps she will have violet eyes when she’s older. Just the sight of her, alive and well, makes me weep until I am left dry.

My Robb has been a pillar of strength for us, since there are days that I cannot rise from bed without pain. It’s an odd pain, since the maesters say I have healed normally yet my heart and soul scream and bleed in agony. On those days I only cry in bed; if this is the same pain that drives Alia to tears, I understand her entirely and wish to take it from her.

Ah, forgive this letter, it’s a mess. Mother Cat and Lady Gywn say that my unsettled emotions should clear by the fourth or fifth moon after Alia’s birth, as they too suffered from similar pains. I think you mentioned before that Luceryn’s birth made you exceedingly melancholy, so perhaps this is to be expected after childbirth? Someone should have mentioned this in their damned manuals! I fear I’ve already scared poor Lyra from ever having children.

My Robb lies beside me this moment asleep, and Alia is asleep on his chest. They have the same faces when they sleep, I cannot love them more than in this one moment. When Alia is old enough to play nicely, send Rosario and Luceryn up to Winterfell to visit. Or perhaps I’ll send Alia down to the Water Gardens? I myself never got a chance to see those fabled fountains, so Alia certainly must.

All my love, Rhaenys

* * *

Dear Lady Rhaenys Stark, Princess Targaryen,

I spoke with my mentor and he agreed that I am fit to become a full-fledged maester now. I just forged the last of my platinum and Valyrian steel chains, for a full set. If your Maester Luwin is willing to train me as his successor, I’ll be on the first horse to Winterfell.

Your proposal for what you’ve termed the Green Glass mason guild has great merit, as well as implementing the Reach’s four-crop rotation system for the North’s farmlands. May I suggest adding potatoes and beans to the rotation? They have a high yield and those foods are filling and versatile. If the North is to expand in power as you and your Robb plan, there must be more people; the smallfolk with hearty dinner tables never lack for hardy children. When your masons build your glasshouses in your towns, make sure to plant citrus trees and muskmelon—the Fingers of the Vale are notorious for scurvy and blood-gums, and that’s the last thing you want across a kingdom as vast as the North. I’m sure some lords will complain about your charity, but you managed to convince the king and his Hand to not appropriate your dragons. Lords are quite petty in comparison.

Also, Father wrote me. He’s getting you a casket of mangosteen fruit and he thinks you can grow mangosteen in your glass gardens. Honestly, I think he’s a fool since those trees require an absurd amount of heat and water to grow, and the North snows in summer. That’s what I consider “cold”. You know how excitable he can be. But you are a water witch who commands rivers of spring water as hot as your Dornish blood, or so the rumormongers say in Oldtown. Perhaps you’ll do the impossible and grow tropical fruits in the tundra. I think your little Alia would love that.

Always yours, the Sphinx

* * *

Sella,

Mooncatcher and I have bonded! It happened at midnight, under the pale shade of the moon, and I was witching by the waters of the Winter Knife. Mooncatcher was making her lazy circles around the stars. Robb lay by my side and I sang to him how both the wolf and the water howl at the moon in unison, how it was proof that we were both fools meant to be together. He took that as the bit of poetry I intended, but my mind was enraptured by it. The moon catches us all in her pale hands, from the wolves to the tides to the syncing of our wombs. How perfectly that describes us.

I felt Mooncatcher’s gaze lock onto mine as I considered this delightful truth. I whispered “Mooncatcher” aloud, and in an instant I was bonded to her. I can feel her intents and feelings in my own heart, like an extension of my soul. Our hearts even beat together as one when we fly together, and it’s a joy I never thought I’d know in this world. I dare say I’ll never ride a horse again!

Robb teases me that I’m half mad, and I tease him right back when he and Grey Wind bound across the hills together. Is this how you feel with Rhaelaxes? I hope Aemon and Senya shall bond with dragons one day; I’d tell them to come north and see if they take to the menagerie up here, but King Bastard will never let them go. Such a shame.

You wrote in your last letter that Father won’t let you make alms rounds for the Princess’ Charity because of the threat against your person. Try convincing two Kingsguard to guard you and then make the rounds anyway. I recommend Ser Barristan and Ser Arys—don’t ask Ser Arthur or Ser Jonothor, they are entirely Father’s men.

The Starks send their love, and Alia says hello to her favorite tall auntie—don’t tell Senya, but you are most definitely the taller twin.

Love, Rhae

* * *

Dear Lady Rhaenys Stark, the Lady Witch of Winterfell, Princess Targaryen, Sun Dragon, etc.

I bid you to spare us all these long salutations in our correspondence to you. I am but an old woman and my poor scribe can hardly keep up with whatever new title the lords seem fit to grant you. Admittedly, I envy the title “Seamstress of Sorcery” since it’s ruffled the feathers of the flock at Oldtown’s sept. Anything that causes those stuffy, self-important old men such distress is a welcome one. I did have to silence one of the septons who tried to encourage a lord to hire an assassin to do away with you, since my dear Margaery would be most distraught.

Preparations are being made for your arrival at Highgarden, although my foolish son thinks that your dragon would be content to sleep in a stable. Do set him straight, hopefully without turning all of Highgarden’s horses to dragonfeed. Willas loves those nickering beasts and would be most wroth. Speaking of Willas, I think you are the cause of Princess Daenerys pushing him towards Lady Melessa Tarly. Not a bad decision, quite a useful one, but certainly a most unexpected one. Another thing we must discuss, along with your plans of sending Reach farmers up to the frozen North to teach your farmers how to grow much from not much. At least you have proper taste.

My Margaery has also written me about an alliance with the Vale. Are your fingers in every pie in Westeros? Bravo, you even touched upon some more…seditious thoughts. Very interesting from a princess, but you’re no mere simpering milquetoast.

I am most excited to meet you and your dragon in person.

Lady Olenna Tyrell, Queen of Thrones, the Rose Dowager, etc.

* * *

Dear Rhaenys,

I’ve send a gift for Alia’s second nameday by ship, and for your own past nameday. Forgive the shortness of this letter, I’ll make it up to you with a better one.

I needed to inform you that you will hear rumors that King Rhaegar will come to the North to finally lay claim to your dragons. Those rumors are false, my aunt Queen Lyanna convinced him otherwise and the rumor mill is ever fond of a mummer’s war. I fear it might be a ploy to get you to act against him first. I will keep my eyes and ears open for more information.

On a happier note, I will write you a novel about how Dom defended my and Arya’s honor against some petty-minded fools. He will be the greatest of knights one day!

Lovingly, Sansa

* * *

To Mother Cat,

Forgive me for writing to you as you take a well-deserved visit to Riverrun. I will pray for your sister Lady Mooton’s health and for that of her daughter Eleanor. I myself suffered redspots as a child as did all my siblings, so Eleanor ought to be fine. And I doubt that Lady Mooton would succumb to something as simple as a childhood disease, you Tully women seem to be far hardier than even royal princesses.

I also hope that your nephew isn’t giving Lord Edmure and Lady Roslin any trouble. Dearest darling Alia is driving Robb and I up the wall. Her ability to throw silverware and fling herself onto the ground in tantrums and say No in both Common and High Valyrian is impressive. The maesters are still finding a cure for her worst episodes of colic, we don’t want her dependent on sweetsleep or poppy milk but her crying breaks all our hearts. At least such a firm will, and defiance of authority figures will serve her well in adulthood—if we survive to see her adulthood!

I’m writing because I caught Edwin kissing my lady Meera Reed and need advice on how to proceed. You agreed with me that marrying Edwin to Alys Karstark would be best to further unite the North against the coming Long Night. However, Robb and I talked with Edwin about his intentions and he says that he’s loved her since he knew how to love a woman. And I believe him, since he speaks about Meera like how I speak about Robb or Lady Wynafryd speaks about her betrothed Lord Benfred Tallhart.

Maybe if Edwin and Meera marry and we rebuild Moat Cailin, that would be a better benefit? Now that the North has built up a 45-ship strong navy and has trading partners in Westeros and Essos and the Summer Isles, we can afford to rebuild that old keep. And Meera knows the Neck better than we all do combined so she would be a good Lady for that keep.

What do you think? I don’t know who Alys would marry in Edwin’s stead, and I’ve taken Alys in as a near sister ever since her father died and her odious cousin tried to marry her by force. I imagine Alia in her place, and it makes me question what is prudent and what is honorable. So I ask for your advice.

Your foolish daughter, Rhaenys

* * *

To my decidedly unfoolish daughter Rhaenys,

You needn’t apologize for writing. As your good mother it’s my honor to guide you in matters where you feel unsure. My sister Lysa has since recovered since you wrote your letter, and her Ellie is none the worse for wear after a few weeks of itching. Her son Petyr is also fine and will foster at Riverrun when he turns ten.

Edmure is being run ragged by little Edgar, but Roslin has a firm hand on him. Must be from growing up in such a household like the Twins. I spoke to them about one day fostering little Ed in the North and they are open to it. They’re also stockpiling as much grain, potatoes and dried meat as possible for the Long Night. An advancing plague of winter and death seems more plausible when their kinswoman can sew new rivers into the earth like embroidery.

Roslin said that little Ed suffers the same strange ailment that Alia has and they narrowed it down to an intolerance to dairy. She recommended that Alia abstain from all wheat, eggs, nuts and dairy for a full moon, as those foods are the most likely to cause disturbances in children. Then start reintroducing foods to narrow down what she does and doesn’t take to. She may have to return to the tender grace of a wet nurse to supplement rice gruel. If you fear for her growth, have Maester Luwin and our dear Alleras create a solution from chicken broth to fatten Alia’s cheeks.

The best made plans are always led to waste, that’s what my septa told me. If Edwin and Meera truly love each other, then putting them in a rebuilt Moat Cailin to defend the Neck may be our best move. Lord Daryn Hornwood is still without a bride, and from what I remember he is a good and gentle man. Ask dear Alys what she thinks about marrying him instead and becoming Lady of the Hornwood. The Hornwoods are a strong house, and with them and House Karstark joined they can be an excellent shield against any threats from the north and west. A very effective pincher in case Lord Bolton decides to cause trouble.

I’ll speak with my husband about rebuilding Moat Cailin so we can advise you and Robb. Expect another raven within the week with our first thoughts and when we return to Winterfell we can have a proper discussion.

Love, Mother Cat

* * *

Rhaenys,

Don’t eat anything served by the new cook, he is a Bolton man. I’ll extract him within the week, for now stick to Gage’s meat pies and fruit straight from the glass gardens. Wyn was the one to suss him out, so thank her by betrothing her to Benfort Tallhart so they stop making moon eyes at each other. It puts everyone off their soup.

Also a spy told me that members of House Ryswell entertained a bard who sang the song “The Wolf In Witching Heat” which decries you as some sort of seductress who works upon the hidden savagery in all Stark-blooded men or whatever that cunt was going on about. Another house to worry about, although the spy did note that members of House Glenmore were visiting and looked quite disgusted. I’ll send overtures to them and see if their daughter Elaena is free to come to Winterfell.

Wylla

* * *

Dear Lady Stark of Winterfell, Princess Targaryen,

My granddaughter Ysabel Royce and my kinswoman Myranda Royce accept your offer to foster them at Winterfell so that they may learn how to manage household work and acquaintance themselves with lords and ladies of our allies, the North. In return, I will foster Brandon Tallhart and Eddard Karstark at Runestone.

As for your request, the book you were looking for does indeed exist in part in Runestone’s archives. The sample letter that your Maester Alleras wrote matches one of the passages in the book. I will send the book with Ysabel, so that your maesters and lord husband may research further the runes within Winterfell’s crypts. As a fair warning, Ysabel will devour every book in Winterfell’s library and Myranda will charm every comely lord, so I suggest you put them to good use and aid Lord Robb in his studies.

Lord Royce of Runsetone

* * *

To Lord Tallhart, Lord of Torrhen’s Square,

My lord husband Lord Stark and I have considered your request. And we accept: your brother Lord Leobald shall begin settlement of a new chartered city in the Saltspear. I recommend that you coordinate with the Dustins; the Forresters and all the gentry of that area to craft a harbor worthy of the North. We will discuss a loan to cover set-up costs once you arrive at Winterfell with your lady wife and son. I will also send the Green Glass masons to the new settlement to construct a glasshouse there along with the standard herbs, spices and fruit. If you have a specific request for the Green Glass mason guild, I have attached their information to this letter.

As always, your daughter Lady Eddara is a delight. I am ever grateful for her company and for your noble House’s support of the Starks and the North.

Lady Stark, Princess Targaryen

* * *

Dear Woods Witch Rhaenys,

It’s been two full years since Sansa and I came to the Red Keep, that’s what my ledger says. Sansa and I will be visiting by the next moon, and I wish that I could stay in Winterfell and wash the stink of court off me for good. But Mother reminded me that you need eyes and ears down in the South. I think your brother Aemon already told you about some of this, but you ought to know more about what’s happening here.

A woman named Melisandre showed up some moons ago. One of those Red Priestesses from Essos that pray to fire and do fire magic. Sansa thinks it’s all a mummer’s farce, nothing at all like real magic like yours. But if it’s fake, it’s a very convincing one. When the sewers near Flea Bottom backed up again, she burned some goats and beseeched the Lord of Light or whomever to perform some sort of miracle. And then the very next day the sewers caught fire, burned all the shit trapped inside, and the waters flow through clean and clear. Kings Landing only smells a bit like shit now, instead of overbearingly.

Melisandre told Brienne (you remember her? My wonderful, amazing, extremely tall friend who takes water dancing lessons with me? I’ll bring her to Winterfell with Sansa and Dom) and me that eyes were in our future. “Brown eyes, blue eyes, green eyes, eyes you’ll close forever.” No gray, so I feel rather left out, but Brienne is pretty spooked by it.

But that’s not what I wanted to write about. Melisandre got Lord Varys executed!

Varys hated her, it was obvious enough that Brienne noticed and Brienne is pretty innocent to court intrigue. He got this whole pile of evidence and took it to the King, yeah? But then the King called in Melisandre to defend herself, and she turned all of Varys’s evidence back on him. And she brought her OWN evidence that he’s actually a Blackfyre! That he colluded with the Mad King to start the Rebellion so that Westeros would burn, and the Blackfyres across the Narrow Sea could come and take over!

She had letters by Varys’s own hand spelling it out. And the King cut off Varys’s head since he believed her. I think we all believe her since they searched his friend’s chambers and found more proof. But now she’s Mistress of Whispers and at least to me this feels like she set Varys up. Maybe she is a traitor and saved her pretty white neck by revealing another traitor. Sansa agrees, and Sansa has the clearest head between the two of us for politics so it’s pretty much fact.

Either way Sansa and I would rather be back home in Winterfell with you and Robb and Edwin and Branda and Alia (say hello to her for me!) and Mother and Father. But Sella is really lonely now that Senya is spending all her time with Melisandre, and we can’t just leave her here. Do you think you could convince the King to bring her up North? She’s the most Stark-like out of all of the royals since she and Nymeria are bosom friends.

The King keeps talking about you, Alia and your dragons. He says that one of you will be the third head to a dragon? Is he talking about dragon riders? Dany and Sella are still the only ones who ride dragons down here so that might be referring to you taking flights on Mooncatcher. Sometimes when I’m chasing cats, I overhear him singing on his harp and…well I don’t want to overthink things, but when he sings about you it makes me really uncomfortable. And when I repeated the lyrics (some shlock about you being your mother reborn into pureblooded beauty, whatever the seven hells that is supposed to mean) to Sansa she got really pale and said to never tell anyone else about that. So, I don’t recommend that you come south any time soon. Or ever. This place is shit and I’m so glad you’re a Stark now.

Other than all that, everything is as per usual. I keep warging into Nymeria at night with or without me wanting to, but I’m getting better at controlling where we go. Syrio says that soon I’ll be half as good as he is, which sounds damning by faint praise, but truth be told he can kill half a dozen men with a child’s wooden sword, so I take it as a compliment. Wait, there is something exciting—I caught Dom and Sansa kissing! Which was disgusting but also hilarious. We could have our own Lady Bolton, who could believe it? I like Dom much better than most of these Southrons anyway, so it works out. Like him better than some Northern men too, I’ll smack some sense into them for those awful lies they say about you up North.

Give everyone my love, Arya Underfoot

* * *

Urgently to Lady Rhaenys Stark, Princess Targaryen:

Beasts have been spotted in the rainwoods near Storm’s End. They have been savaging villages and are hard to kill. What does the Lady Witch of Winterfell recommend?

Lord Stannis Baratheon, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands

* * *

Lord Stannis Baratheon, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands:

Fire is confirmed to kill unnatural beasts, as well as drowning in blessed water and the teeth of a dragon. I will sail for Storm’s End immediately to offer what aid I can.

Lady Rhaenys Stark, Princess Targaryen

* * *

Dear Shireen,

I have just returned to Winterfell now and found that your raven beat me home. To that letter I reply with a very loud and enthusiastic of course you can come to Winterfell! I’d be glad to host you and your lady mother and prove to more people that, believe it or not, the North is no frozen wasteland. That honor belongs to Far Mossovy, from what some of my relatives tell me. They make the most excellent potato liquor there, their only bright point.

I’m also glad that your lord father appreciated my help and finalized a trade and military support treaty with the North. We’ll be needing that in the coming years. Don’t worry, I wasn’t offended when one of his stewards said I was an abomination and a Dornish whore. I’ve heard worse from smaller minds, and the steward certainly changed his tune when I joined the Slayne and the Wendwater! I’m mostly offended that people can’t think of a more creative insult than Dornish whore, it’s quite boring now. At least the Faith mixes up their insults, I don’t know who Jesebella is but I quite admire her now.

But I digress. Just send the word when you and Lady Cersei would like to come, and I will prepare rooms for you. Summer is still holding strong, although my Maester Alleras (oh, you’ll absolutely love Alleras) predicts that autumn will come in the next year or two. We will speak of autumn and winter when you arrive, and what that means for all Westeros.

Best, Rhaenys

* * *

Rhaenys,

I intercepted a letter from Lord Ryswell to House Flint and it spoke of marrying your Alia to his grandson and “breeding the witch out of her”. Tell me what to do with him, that’s a ship of malicious intent that can’t be allowed to dock.

Wylla

* * *

Wylla,

I want that grandson as a page in Winterfell, let him think I’m a stupid whore honoring him and letting in the enemy. After four months I want a girl brought as a lady’s maid and set before the boy’s eye and therefore his grandfather’s. Who do you think is a good match for a Ryswell, one of the Cerwyn cousins? The boy won’t breed anything but horses and happy children with his betrothed. No heiresses, I don’t want Ryswell influence overpowering loyalty to Winterfell.

Rhaenys

* * *

Dear Rhaenys,

I think you've heard about the Most Devout holding a "session of prayer" about your magic. They won’t dare put you on trial since you’re a princess of the blood and have three dragons at Winterfell. But I fear that they’ve received miraculous visions of a river sweeping away Kings Landing and bringing disease and death from the North. Certainly enough fearmongering to rile up sentiment against you, even if those miraculous visions were crafted intentionally! I’m disgusted and disappointed in the Faith’s actions, and I will pray to the Crone to bend them over her knee and beat sense into them lest they try against the Stranger’s rod.

Arya, the princesse, Margaery and I are making rounds with the propaganda machine, as Arya calls it. Your Green Glass mason guild inspired the Goldmasonry in the Westerlands and the Garden Guild in the Reach, so Daenerys is rounding up masons and apprentices here in the capital to see if we can build communal greenhouses for the urban poor. I’ve attached our calculations for the amount of glass, wood and starter fruit we need, perhaps you could pass them along to your uncle Prince Doran in Sunspear? I know he resents my aunt the queen, and being around her for long periods of time puts me off my own tea as well. But if the people of Kings Landing and the Crownlands see that their so-called witch princess is actively putting food in their bellies and sparing them from blood-gums, the Faith will have less faithful to draw upon.

On a sweeter note, Dom named me his Queen of Love and Beauty at the tourney at Rosby! He crowned me with golden roses and lavender, and we danced the whole night away under the stars. I know that he is a Bolton, and that you and Robb are at odds with his father because of Lord Bolton’s stupidity. But I cannot help but look at him and imagine myself at his side when we are old and gray. Mother says that I will marry a good and great man worthy of my hand; do you think Dom could be him now that he is a knight?

Lovingly, Sansa

* * *

Dear Arianne,

Just a little message for now, but I wanted you to know first: Robb and I are expecting another child! We hope it’s a boy to soothe these Northerners about the succession of Winterfell, they’re getting quite boorish about it.

Love, Rhaenys

* * *

Arianne,

I lost the babe. It was a boy. We named him Rickon and buried him in the godswood.

Shireen is a constant comfort, even Lady Cersei is soft in her words to me, and Robb showers me with love. But I cannot help but wonder what I did wrong. What did I do? Should I have waited another year? Alia asked about her little brother or sister and I didn’t know what to say. What do you think I should’ve done?

Rhaenys

* * *

To my dearest little sunbeam,

You did nothing wrong. I know people will tell you that the gods wanted your little Rickon in the embrace of the Mother sooner than later, or that it’s but bad luck that he didn’t stick. It’s all true, plus another truth: we are but fragile flesh and blood. It hardly matters what you eat or drink or exercise when sometimes…there is no answer. There is no cure. Sometimes a babe in the belly is too fragile for birth and it comes when shouldn’t.

I myself lost a babe in between Rosario and Luceryn. From what my married friends have confided in me, nearly every woman has known the loss of a stillbirth or a miscarriage or a moonblood far later than it ought to have come. This is a pain no one warns us for, and I’m sorry for your pain and confusion. Please take heart in that so many people love you, from your husband to your cousins and siblings and aunts and uncles and children. Alia loves her mother. Rickon, though he never took breath, loves you and doesn’t blame you. Now he waits with your mother and watches over you. Grieve for him, grieve as long as you need to, and then rejoice that you love your son and he loves you.

I’m coming on the next ship to Sunspear with citrus fruits; teas; kohl and red shell lip paint; candles and perfumes. I will braid your hair, gossip with you about torrid rumors in the South, and listen if you want to talk. If you want, I’ll bring Rosario with me so she can finally meet Alia. We await your word.

My love for you always, Arianne

* * *

To my darling niece,

I heard from Viserys and his loves about your loss. I am so sorry. I know what it’s like to lose a child as a father, may my Obara forever battle in the eternal halls of warriors, but I cannot imagine the pain of losing a child as a mother. Were your mother here, she would know the words. I therefore hope that she may visit you in your dreams and tell you those words herself. If you need anything from me, I will do everything in my power to achieve it.

My Tyene found this tome in Asshai, written in Old Rhoynish. It is a teaching manual of sorts from a Rhoynish water witch who lived nearly two thousand years ago. Within it contains yet another art lost to time: how to sing but one word, with but one hand motion, and cast powerful and directional magic. Here be not mere witching, but true sorcery. Use it well.

Love, your uncle Oberyn

* * *

Dear Rhaenys,

I’m unsure if the news has reached Winterfell yet, but plague has broken out in the Westerlands. The Lannisters are safe in their Casterly Rock, but I will keep you updated if anything changes. I doubt that Lord Tyrion will be struck down by something as simple as plague, when he’s survived so much. His wife is pregnant, and I pray for the babe in her belly.

Dany

* * *

Dear Rhaenys,

I did what you asked, and I had all the gentry in my holdings and all the property owners in Sea Dragon Point’s chartered city take stock of their wealth and crops over this past year and some moons. If you can believe it, Sarella was wrong—the crops haven’t just increased with this new crop rotation system from the Reach. They’ve doubled. The clover is a godsend for now we can feed all our mangy cows and sheep until they’re less mangy. Merchant purses are fat with selling wool and timber and extra crops to the Westerlands now that the plague there has passed and they’re in need of food and wood untainted by death. You’ll be receiving a new shipment of wool as soon as it can be packed on a ship, have some White Harbor merchants look over it and see if it’s up to fussy Essosi standards. It’s good enough for the Sunset Sea harbors, but Westeros knows the proper worth of wool.

The glasshouse complex you installed as part of your charity is overflowing with herbs, spices and citrus fruits. The maesters report that there’s far less cases of scurvy and blood-gums now that we’ve got Dornish blood oranges at our table alongside our neeps and cod cakes. I take back every complaint about having to be a proper lady heading the Point. It’s an honor to know we’re doing good by our people. The smallfolk don’t bend their backs as much as they used to and I’m proud for it.

Ned and I are getting better at understanding the Old Tongue, now that all the Umbers are determined to master it before the Royces do. Men and their pride, but I’m hardly any better. Kiss Alia and Robb and Ma and Da for me, I miss them so. And tell them to visit me and Ned before we forget what they look like!

Love, Branda

* * *

Dear Shireen,

Congratulations on your new cousin! I received the miniature portrait of Jason a week after your last letter, and it may be too early to say but he reminds me of my faint memories of Ser Jaime. Their names certainly match. I thank the gods old and new that your good-aunt Lady Alysanne is healthy after childbed, House Lannister has had its share of sadness and now it’s time for joy. While I know that your lady mother and your uncle Lord Tyrion do not have the best relationships, I’m glad that she allows you to spend time with little Jason and your Lannister cousins. Arianne lived at the Red Keep with me for a few years until I was two-and-ten, and I still miss her. Cousins in a way are even better than siblings, because you can hit them if they cause you too much grief. Not that you should hit an infant, of course!

Daenerys and Margaery have primed the way for your entry to the Red Keep. And I know that your parents have given you the advice and tools you need to survive and thrive and take a crown for yourself. But please, I entreat you to be as careful as you can in a pit of vipers. The king is…not well. He may see you as a threat to his precious prophecies, and I cannot bear the thought of him hurting my friend just because you’re not incestuous enough for Aemon. If it’s too dangerous, abandon this gambit and find yourself a husband with a less tainted House.

If you need anything, I am a raven away. Already the North sings your praises for your sweet and witty conduct when you visited last, and for the Stormlands buying all our wool and granite. It’s a shame Robb doesn’t have a twin you could marry and move up North to keep me company, but I shall call you good-sister by hell or high water.

Best, Rhaenys

* * *

Dear Rhaenys,

Ser Jonnel Arryn has come to the Red Keep to formally court Daenerys and Father is outraged. But he can do nothing: Daenerys is the last Targaryen in line to the throne, she is a woman fully grown of eight-and-ten years, the Arryns are a loyal and ancient house full of honor, and Lord Willas Tyrell has betrothed himself to Lady Melessa Tarly. She told him so in the Great Hall in front of everyone with Nyserix hissing at her side—Nyserix is large enough for three people to ride comfortably now, I believe that Sunchaser is the same size? Father had no choice but to allow Ser Jonnel to press his suit when staring down a fierce dragoness, and Nyserix too.

Lady Margaery is also being courted by Ser Robar Royce and they seem quite happy together. I see your hand in this, Rhaenys, I’m not quite as thick as rumors say. And I see your hand in the Baratheons sending Lady Shireen to court and the lady making my acquaintance. How she speaks of how sweet your Alia is (which is only the truth of course!) and how she’d love a child of her own to be Alia’s playmate. You’ll be pleased to know that you’re right: she is a kind, intelligent, witty woman with a spine of steel and the support of the Stormlands and Westerlands. I hope that Father will allow us to marry and root out these murmurs of civil war before they can start budding. The gods willing that we have a child that may marry one of yours and reunite both claims into one. But I fear that Father has other plans for my marriage, and for the twins’.

I’ve been keeping Father away from the dragons when Daenerys is not present as you said. He still rages and demands that you turn over your dragons to the Dragonpit, but he never acts upon these rages when my mother comes to soothe him. But Visenya and Melisandre are attached at the hip and I cannot break through to her. She speaks to me of the things she sees in her fires and they match what I saw in the river. I’m terrified, but I will not let her be lost to those flames. I won’t let those visions happen.

Father speaks of you often, wishing that you would return and comparing you to your mother. He even waxes lyrical about your mother and how she would’ve been a fine queen—as if he didn’t abandon her to die! My own mother flies in rages whenever he speaks of her, screaming things I will not repeat in this letter. I wish she wouldn’t, and that Father could let go of his fascination with ghosts. Hopefully this odd mania passes, but it’s been nearly four years since its start.

In the sewers of the Red Keep they found a basilisk. Father buried that information, but you ought to know in case one appears in Winterfell. Its scales are resistant to fire, but if it ingests flame or Valyrian steel it is quick to die.

Your brother, Aemon

* * *

To my uncle Vis and his keepers Asha and Qarl,

I hope this letter arrives before that bothersome storm off Pentos starts disrupting the mail carrier routes. I had half a mind to fly to you directly to present my message, but Alia would wriggle right out of my arms to the sea below just so she could ask the mermaids personally what shells they use to decorate their hair.

Perhaps if you came to the North one day, I wouldn’t worry about my daughter becoming one with the ocean. The air is cold and the sky is never clear of clouds, but thanks to Sarella’s research and my Green Glass mason guild, everyone has near enough to eat now. All the fields are mandated to grow rye, turnips, clover and barley to support the populace. And with the increased yield of the earth, farmers can also grow potatoes, bean, squashes and melons without risking their livelihoods. Ah, forgive me, I sound like a provincial lady with my boots covered in manure! Perhaps I will entice you to visit with our citrus trees, every hamlet and town in the North has a crop of oranges and lemons. I know how you sailors adore citrus fruit and I have some to spare for the Lords and Lady of Krackenstone.

My magic is developing nicely thanks to a marvelous tome that Uncle Oberyn sent me. I no longer faint when I adjust rivers to my liking, and I have three apprentices with me at Winterfell: Galena, Saria and Almeza. Three Orphans of the Greenblood at Winterfell, who could have ever imagined it! And now I help them develop their own magic to aid the North and Dorne and all Westeros. Already there are some lords and men of high holdings who covet pretty Rhoynish wives for themselves. Woe betide them if they try to steal them away, I’ll make them swim from one end of the North to the other with naught but their smallclothes.

The true miracle, however, is Robb’s ability to read runes written in the Dawn Age. Ever since he prayed to the old gods that my witching may succeed, he’s unlocked a sort of magic of his own. Randa and Ysabel are ever eager to help him practice his runecraft, since they too have an aptitude for it and want to rework the old runes on the Royce armor. You know, the armor that supposedly protects its wearer from all harm but is a sham? Maybe they’ll get it working again.

Robb, Alia, and I are headed to Braavos in two months’ time to meet with the new Sealord and strike up a trade negotiation with him in person. He seems to be the sort of person who prefers whispers behind closed doors as opposed to ciphers in unmarked letters and Robb appreciates that. I appreciate getting a chance for Alia to meet her daft grand uncles and aunt. Before you ask, I’m well enough to travel in body and mind. Rickon remains in my heart’s keeping, he is no burden.

I can’t believe I can finally meet your lovely daughter! You wrote that Duyen is nine years of age now, and already taller than Asha? It’s not quite hard to imagine that, but you also wrote that when she is a fully grown woman she will be over seven feet tall. If only all women in Westeros could be like the women of Leng, when lords irritate me arguing about farming rights I could set them on top of a high ledge and wait for them to calm down and be ready for actual negotiations. Has she taken to the sea well? The _Jolly Kracken_ must have new compartments to accommodate her.

I have rather unfortunate news, or fortunate depending on how you see it. King Bastard’s Red Mistress of Whispers (she is quite the mistress of many things, I’ve been told) found evidence of treason on your part. Something about Viserys calling King Bastard a shameless whore in a pub in Tyrosh? True or not, King Bastard was incensed and formally tried all three of you in-absentia for treason. The evidence was quite compelling considering you have yet to commit more treason than I have and I am always, eternally, forever the most humble and loyal of citizens. You were found guilty, officially stripped of all titles and claims to the Iron Throne, and now you cannot return to Westeros ever on pain of death.

I can already hear you laughing, Asha. Qarl, don’t worry, this is all hot air since King Bastard doesn’t have the time or resources to spend on hunting the _Jolly Kracken_ down across the Jade and Summer Seas. Viserys, I realize that this puts my position in even more contention since lords too wary to back an official disinherited traitor may come to my banner. Rest assured I will keep my cards close to my chest and that the menagerie at Winterfell is ever protective of the Starks.

Come to Braavos and we may all talk and drink in person. Asha, you may give Alia an axe only if you also teach her why it’s bad to throw it at birds. Branda went through a phase a child of trying to cut down all ravens and obviously that’s bad for official business. Alia herself says “Hello!” and waved at the letter as I wrote it, such a sweetheart. I dare say she will adore Duyen as if your daughter were born from Asha’s womb, if not even more so.

All our love, your silly niece Rhaenys, her foolish husband Robb and their entirely accomplished daughter Alia.

* * *

Rhaenys,

Did Robb tell you he’s inviting Lord Bolton and his disgusting bastard to Winterfell? I think you’re a part of those new trade accords they’re negotiating, but I recommend you don’t linger long. I have rumors that Ramsay Snow is a rapist—I need more proof of it to justify a trial, or at least a very unfortunate meal of nightshade berries.

Wylla

* * *

My beloved niece,

When Arianne returned from the North, she taught the river song to every Orphan of the Greenblood that was willing to learn and could bear the burden. Now nearly a dozen new rivers run through Dorne, rich with fish and gold and black silt. We now have more water and farmable soil than we know what to do with, and the deserts sing with the sound of life.

Word has spread across the kingdoms that magic springs anew thanks to the Lady Witch of Winterfell. My niece Sarella must have told you how the Citadel fears and loathes your witching, and that the Faith is also against it. But rest assured that you have the love of all Dorne, and all the lords and smallfolk from the Reach to the Stormlands to the Vale to the Rirverlands to the North sing your praises.

There is nothing we can give you that can come close to thanking you for what you’ve done. Send us word of what you desire and Dorne shall find it for you. Be it ten thousand citrus trees, or everlasting peace with the Reach, or the Iron Throne itself—whatever you desire, you shall have it.

Your uncle Doran.

* * *

Dear Arya Underfoot,

I thank you a thousand times over for your gift! You must not be so hard on yourself, you have a gift for charcoal pictures just like Edwin but unlike him you actually add a scale of what you’re drawing. I now have your picture of the Blackwater Rush hanging in my solar, so that I always remember what brought me to Winterfell. Robb carved runes on the picture frame and now the river seems to glimmer and flow just as it does in real life.

At the risk of tempting fate, I’ll tell you now before the official announcement: I’m with child again! We’re hoping it’s a boy for Winterfell, but most of all a healthy baby that we can all dote upon and Alia can teach naughty words to. She’s but four years of age now and we’ve given her a toy sword to whack everyone with. Mother Cat is a touch troubled by it, but I reminded her that your esteemed self is bringing the Stark name high honor with your swordsmanship and I want Alia to be much like her aunts.

Moat Cailin is nearly ready to live in, although the battlements are not up to my standard. Robb says I’m being a perfectionist, but I want Edwin and Meera installed as Lord and Lady of Moat Cailin without any required addendums. It’s much faster to travel across the North now with the official sailing lines up and down the river, so thankfully it won’t be a hardship to visit them. Maybe if you decide to live in the North after your planned travels with Viserys, Asha and Qarl (I envy you most heatedly, but alas we cannot all be pirate lords) Robb and I can whip up a keep for you. Just throw a knife at a map and that’ll be your castle.

Your instructor wrote me that you are at the end of your water dance training. Come back to Winterfell as quick as you can and bring Brienne with you if she would like to come. It’s time that you learn a different sort of dance with a spear and atop a direwolf, satisfy both Nymeria and Bodi’s spirits that way. Robb is willing to teach you runecraft if you’ve the steady hand for it, which any swordswoman should. And it’s time that my darling Alia attaches herself to her beloved auntie. Here is a message from her:

Hello Arya! Im Alia! I can writ my lettrs now and Mama sayd you and me can rid Mooncachr! Com hom soon pleas!

Is she not the sweetest girl? I don’t know where she gets it from but it’s not from me.

Hurry back soon, Woods Witch Rhaenys

* * *

I pray this letter finds you without anyone else knowing. If Mother and Father knew I wrote this I fear they’ll cut my hand off.

It’s really bad here I’m scared. Senya can see things in fires now just like Melisandre and she talks about how fire and blood will wake up more dragons. Father burned a criminal from the Black Cells last week and Melisandre helped him. Mother didn’t do anything to stop him! She said it was the will of the “true” gods and she believes the prophecy now.

Mother is pregnant and they keep talking about how it’s the third head of the dragon with Senya and me. But before it was Aemon. Melisandre changed their minds. I think Melisandre is going to hurt Aemon. And if she hurts him, she’ll hurt you. And if that happens, civil war will tear this continent apart. Please, PLEASE be safe.

* * *

Sweetling,

The woman at my side has daughters that look nothing like her. Yet you are the vision of your own mother. What a marvelous occurrence. Return to the Red Keep, my darling. Come back to me. I miss you.

Your father

* * *

**I hope that last letter wasn’t too ominous lol**

**We are now 5 years into the future past the events of Ch 9. Here’s a tl;dr of what’s happened:**

**-Rhaenys and Robb have a daughter named Aliandra, Alia for short. She is named for Elia and Arianne, and Aliandra is a traditional Martell name. Rhaenys suffers from postpartum depression (her “unsettled emotions”) but recovers. Alia later on suffers from a sensitivity to wheat and dairy that eventually passes.**

**-Lysella bonds with the dragon Rhaelaxes, Daenerys bonds with Nyserix, and Rhaenys bonds with Mooncatcher. Rhaegar, Aemon and Visenya haven’t bonded with any dragons and it’s upsetting Rhaegar.**

**-Rhaenys starts up and funds a glasshouse mason guild called the Green Glass Guild that goes to towns and villages around the North and builds communal glasshouses with a standardized set of fruits, herbs and spices (lemons, oranges, apples, muskmelon/cantaloupe, garlic, basil, ginger, rosemary, chamomile and turmeric). This is for the direct benefit of smallfolk and gentry who don **’t have access to these things and as a result suffer from scurvy, vitamin deficiency and general health problems.** **As seen in one of Sansa’s letters, the guild system is being copied by other kingdoms in preparation for whatever the hell the Long Night is since Rhaegar is being super vague about it.****

**-She is also coordinating an exchange program of sorts with the Reach where Reach farmers (and some Dornish ones too for specialty crops) come to the North and teach Northern farmers how to use a four-crop rotating system. In return, Reach farmers gain experience farming different landscapes, have access to Northern crops like winter squashes and rutabaga/neeps, and if they really like the North they may stay and acclimate (like House Manderly did thousands of years ago). As seen in Branda **’s letter, this is quite effective. The North needs more people for rebuilding after the Long Night, and more people need more food.****

**-Wylla is Rhaenys’s spymaster and they are fighting a secret war to put down Bolton rebellions before they can happen. Houses Bolton, Dustin, Ryswell and Flint all are actively against Rhaenys and House Stark, so they have a lot on their plate.**

**-Melisandre is the new Mistress of Whispers after she took down Varys. She is influencing Rhaegar, Lyanna and Visenya to go in deeper into their prophecy madness and now even Lyanna is full-in on it…when she and Rhaegar aren’t having horrific screaming battles. Daenerys and Margaery are kept at the Red Keep to keep the dragons under Rhaegar’s thumb and they’re plotting how to escape via marriage or running away.**

**-The drama in the Red Keep got so volatile that Rhaenys’s governess covertly begged her to bring her to Winterfell. Rhaenys got the message and got permission from Rhaegar to bring Gwyneth and Gwyneth’s husband up North. Gwyneth then spilled the tea about the Red Keep and is now Alia’s governess.**

**-Sarella Sand/Alleras the Sphinx is a new maester at Winterfell. Her gender is an open secret and even conservative Lady Catelyn protects it since she likes Sarella.**

**-Rhaenys and Shireen are now great friends after Rhaenys helped the Stormlands with a monster attack, and Shireen comforts Rhaenys about her miscarriage. Shireen is aware of the brewing plots for civil war, and they both plot to marry Shireen to Aemon, and their children to Rhaenys’s children to set things right.**

**-Arianne now knows the river song from Rhaenys and taught it to the Orphans of the Greenblood aka people with majority Rhoynar blood and customs. Dorne is now more like the Riverlands with ten (10!) new rivers in the desert kingdom; all thanks to the Rhoynar blood of the Orphans, and the Orphans knowing to do river transformation magic in large groups. As a result, Rhaenys is beloved and feared by many in Westeros, and there’s some resentment towards Dorne but since when was that new. I dare say that this fandom needs more Rhaenys and Rhoynar wank anyway.**

**-Robb, thanks to his prayers to the old gods in the previous chapter, now can perform runecraft/runic magic based on the runes of the First Men. Myranda and Ysabel Royce (the Royces are famous for bronze rune armor) come to Winterfell to foster and the three start teaching themselves how to do magic with runecraft. It’s a secret kept within the North and the Royces, since Rhaenys already has the reputation of being a witch and it’s not a great thing to have.**

**-Oberyn found a book that will expand Rhaenys’s river song into True Witchcraft™ which may or may not be essential for the Long Night ahead.**

**-Viserys, Asha and Qarl adopted a Lengii girl named Duyen. The reasons why they adopted weren’t mentioned (their letter accidentally got wiped in a glitched save, and I’m too tired to rewrite it tbh), but it boils down to that a) none of them wanted to raise an infant and Asha despises the idea of pregnancy, b) Viserys feared passing down madness to his children, and c) they saved Duyen from a terrible fate and they all bonded with her. Rhaenys is very happy for them.**

**Note: Duyen (properly written as Duyên; pronounced in Northern Vietnamese as zoo-en and Southern Vietnamese as yoo-wean) is a lovely name that means charm and grace, and she is a lovely girl with charm and grace and ax throwing skills. I stan this tol bean**

**-Viserys is officially banished from Westeros and stripped of all titles because of treasonous statements he’s made with Asha and Qarl. Rhaenys is now seen as the ideal pretender to Aemon’s future rule since a) she’s already in Westeros with dragons and direwolves and water magic, and b) Viserys is now a less attractive option since he’s got no army or official support at his disposal. The fact that his only heir is an adopted Lengii girl and he won’t impregnate Asha is the final nail in that coffin.**

**-Arya and Brienne of Tarth are on their way back to Winterfell and Rhaenys is pregnant again. Lyanna is also pregnant and Lysella fears that a possible son will “replace” Aemon and put both Aemon and Rhaenys in danger. If this happens, civil war will certainly happen.**

**-Rhaegar is obsessing over Rhaenys and Elia now that they are both gone and out of his reach. It’s causing Lyanna massive distress and upsetting their children and people who notice like Arya and Sansa.**

**I hope that clears some things up**


	11. The Scout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead! Now that I've shaken off the flu (I swear to every god in this realm that if my city gets that pesky coronavirus I'm gonna end up back in the hospital again lmao) I can get back to writing!
> 
> TW for descriptions of gore. I tried not to make it too explicit but there is blood and burn wounds involved.

Rhaenys sits by the fire, braiding Alia’s bright red hair into a great spiraling rose at the side of her head. “Just like yours, please,” Alia had asked, and Rhaenys feels her heart melt just a little bit more at the love in her daughter’s purple eyes.

Could Alia really be four years old? Her sweet little babe already finished learning from her hornbook and now takes simple classes with Lady Gwyneth and Sarella about reading and writing letters. She is so eager to learn, and eager to please, a major change from when she was younger and refused to listen to her parents at all and suffered from a violent sensitivity to all dairy and grain that took a full year to pass. And yet Rhaenys misses even those tough times, because Alia was small enough to carry with one arm. Now she is large enough to need two arms, and soon she will be too big to carry at all. One day she will be a woman, and Rhaenys will get to see her daughter grow up unlike Mama. Rhaenys wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “Are you ok, Mama?”

“Yes, I just smelled some dust.” Rhaenys scrunches up her nose and pretends to wipe her hands on Alia’s cheek, and Alia squeals and tries to wriggle away. “But I’m all better now.” She kisses her daughter’s baby soft cheek and finishes her braid. “There we are, the Primrose of Winterfell. Everyone will sigh and make songs about your beauty.”

Alia huffs with all the attitude a small child can possess. “Songs aren’t fun unless we can all sing them with Papa and Edwin and Branda, and they don’t like beauty songs. They like songs about dragons!”

“Then we’ll sing about Mooncatcher too, my sweet.” Mooncatcher is Rhaenys’s bonded dragon, and the sweetest in temperament when compared to Sunchaser and Dreamfyre. And whoever is close to Rhaenys, is close to Alia; Gerey Wind and Mooncatcher are a better nanny to the child than a dozen household servants. Rhaenys and Robb make sure to raise Alia with a proper appreciation of dragons and direwolves, as they are not the same as Balerion’s clutch of kittens the old cat sired before his gentle death of old age. Alia claimed a little calico named Goose as her own, and now Goose now sleeps on Grey Wind’s head, much to the amusement of everyone in the castle.

Alia cuddles with Rhaenys the best they can, as Rhaenys’s swollen stomach makes things a touch difficult. Rhaenys is over eight moons gone with child, and after her tragic miscarriage with Rickon she is eager to give Alia a little brother or sister. Perhaps even both, as she swears she can feel the babe kick twice at once.

Alia kisses her belly and says she loves her little sibling, and Rhaenys coos softly; her daughter is so sweet! This is the sight Robb comes to, still wet from his bath after sparring with the household guard. “Are you being a good little girl, my sweet?”

“Papa!” Alia raises her arms up, and Robb swoops Alia into the air before kissing her belly. Rhaenys tuts that Alia will go through the ceiling and to the moon one of these days, and Alia giggles. “I can’t fly, Mama. I can’t go to the moon.”

Robb nuzzles Alia’s cheek, making Alia laugh and push away from his beard. “We’ll bring the moon down here to visit then, like your aunties in Sea Dragon Point, and Moat Cailin, and Kings Landing and Dorne.” He sits next to Rhaenys and settles Alia in his lap. “How was your morning, little primrose? Did you read another book today?”

“Yes! Lady Gwyn and me read a book about the mermaids who live in Essos, and how one mermaid fell in love with a Summer Islander prince after she saved him, and she had to give up her hair and her voice to walk on land. But the sea witch she gave her hair and voice to wanted to marry the prince! So the mermaid and the prince’s sister had to stop the wedding, and the truth was re—reve—revealed, and the mermaid married the prince and they were happy.” Alia nods like a little sage. “It was ok that she had no hair. The prince said she was still really pretty, and she was really smart, so he loved her even though she had no hair.” She looks up at Rhaenys. “Mama, I love you even if you have no hair.”

Rhaenys laughs and feels that silly urge to weep again. “I love you too, my little sunflower.”

“Hmm. I’m a primrose, and a sunflower, and a dragonrose, and a winter jasmine—where did I get all these flowers from?” Alia imitates Robb when he thinks hard: a hand at her chin, brows furrowed, little “hmm” noises. Robb shakes with mirth as Alia sighs, “The flowers in the glass gardens just kinda sit there, but I have to read books and do my letters and help Grammy talk to all the servants who need more potatoes. It’s hard being flowers, but also being a girl.”

“Don’t worry,” Robb kisses her forehead, “you’re doing a very good job.”

Sarella eventually comes to take Alia to her noon lessons and Rhaenys peppers Alia with kisses. Alia kisses her back and then she is off. She has her own little chamber now, attached to theirs, and Rhaenys feels melancholy when she enters the chamber and looks at Alia’s tiny bed. “She’s so big now.”

Robb hugs her from behind and rests his chin on her head. “She’ll be a wonderful lady, curious and sweet.”

“And a witch.” Rhaenys smiles and kisses Robb’s cheek. “Have you seen her in the bath? The river song is already in her heart, and she likes to make whirlpools just to spin herself around in.”

“Oh, so that’s why she keeps getting water everywhere.” They go back to their chambers and Robb helps her into bed. She will not sleep, as the day is still young and there’s much to do, but she must rest before her back gives out entirely. “And if we have a son? Will he be a witch as well?”

“I don’t see why not.” Rhaenys rests with her head on his chest. “I want the same teaching for our children, no matter their sex. Swords and spears for our daughters, household sums and magic for our sons.” She twists her lips. “We still haven’t picked a name, either.” Lady Gwyneth and Catelyn are entirely amused that Rhaenys will enter confinement with no idea for a name.

“What say you? Beron for a boy?” Robb massages her tight and heavy shoulders. Pregnancy was never Rhaenys’s strong suit, and she is ever eager for a massage. Thankfully, he is ever eager to please.

“A strong Stark name for our firstborn son, yes. I like it.” Rhaenys groans with relief from his hands. Five years after they met, and his hands are still one of her favorite things about his body. “But for a second son or daughter, I’d like a name all their own for them. Aliandra may be a Dornish name, but it comes with a lot of legacy, and so does Beron or Brandon or Richard.” Or Rickon. “I’d like new names for new branches of the Starks.”

He kisses the back of her head. “You’re right. Beron for a first boy, and something new for whoever comes next.” They ponder names for a moment. Perhaps Eideen or Selantha for a daughter, and certainly Beron for a first son but maybe Robin or Cedric for a second. There is time yet to decide, although not much time as Rhaenys knows she is close to the birthing bed. “I wonder what Sansa and Domeric will name their own children.”

“You’ll let them marry?” Domeric Bolton, a man Robb’s age with all the soft features of his Ryswell mother and all her quiet nature too. Half a horse, and fully in love with dear Sansa who wrote to Robb months ago begging for permission to marry her Ser Domeric after he named her Queen of Love and Beauty in yet another tourney. Were it not for Domeric’s house, they would have wed years ago when Domeric first admitted to them that he found Sansa to be everything he could ever dream for in a wife.

“There will be some negotiations over the marriage contract with Lord Bolton, of course.” He raises his eyebrows. “I don’t suppose the dragons could raze the Dreadfort to the ground and we can build a newer, less historically contentious keep for them?”

“I’ll ask,” Rhaenys says and giggles when he kisses her neck. “I don’t suppose we have to do the same to Greywater Watch or to the Last Hearth? I do like the Reeds and the Umbers, and I doubt that either swampland or rocky hills will burn well.” Edwin, newly seven-and-ten, and Meera are wed and live at Moat Cailin with their own household, finally finished after Rhaenys’s constant addendums to its design. Branda is married to Ned Umber, now Ned Stark, and they live at Sea Dragon Point in their new keep and city charter of the same name with a mix of Umber cousins and distant Stark relatives and landed knights. With Wynafryd happily married to Benfred Tallhart; Alys Karstark to Daryn Hornwood; Eddara Tallhart to Gawen Glover; and Lyra Mormont to Robin Flint of Widow’s Watch, the North is knitting together nicely.

Ysabel is married to Harrion Karstark as the next Lady of Karhold; Randa is half prepared to elope with Ser Marlon Manderly’s son Theomore if her father keeps dragging his feet about her dowry; and both the Northern boys sent to Runestone are betrothed to Valewomen. Saria is married to a rich merchant in White Harbor; Galena to an acclimated Reachman in Saltspear; and Almeza to Jory Cassel so that she could stay close to her mentor. The alliances between the North, Dorne, the Reach and the Vale are stronger than ever and there is never a lack of delicious pumpkin, corn, peaches, fireplums, and rice at Winterfell’s table.

Catelyn and Benjen are south at Riverrun to aid Edmure and Roslin with their new son Axel, as Roslin had a hard time in childbed. They are also negotiating more trade treaties with the Riverlands and Iron Islands, and Rhaenys hopes this will knit the North to the upper end of the South. Ships from Braavos, Pentos, the Summer Isles, even far Maali make their stops in Northern ports, with the Northern fleet making their rounds around the Narrow, Summer and Sunset Seas. The North has never been as rich nor as connected to the world as before Rhaenys alighted from the _Sun Maid_ , and most of her people love her for it.

But not all.

Tensions are high in the North between those who see her as a godsend, and those who see her as an abomination against the gods. The Boltons for one, and the Ryswells and the Dustins, and a great deal of the northern mountain clans who see her dark skin and think her untrustworthy on account of blood. They say that she is an untrustworthy wife, to a lord who is already half-Southron, or so Rhaenys’s spymaster Wylla recalls. They have neutralized near a dozen plots to undermine Rhaenys and the Starks since Rhaenys came to Winterfell, and there is an edge of bitterness to her heart now. She won’t have it, not when Alia shares her skin and Robb’s hair. If they found out about Robb’s runecraft, the situation would boil over with accusations that she’s corrupted dear Ned Stark’s son. It’s an immature thought, but perhaps she really ought to raze the Dreadfort to the ground.

Then there are tensions from the South. As a child, she never let herself entertain the idea of being placed on the Iron Throne instead of Aemon because it would remind her of her dead baby brother and she would cry. But now, with Dorne revitalized on account of Rhaenys’s witching and high lords in every kingdom vying for favor with the Lady Witch of Winterfell…Father was a fool to ever let her out of the Red Keep. Not even her desire to avoid war can stop armies gathering under banners if Father keeps playing the prophecy obsessed fool. Her only hope is that he will die without triggering civil war and they can all rest with Aemon as king. Rhaenys will defend Aemon until her dying day, even when civil war bubbles beneath the veneer of calm.

And the letters she keeps receiving from Father disturb her. He writes to her as if she is his sweetheart, as if she is Mama. She burns the letters without responding, hoping they will stop, but they haven’t. The latest one is a poem about the beauty of her eyes and comparing her to a siren of Lys. What if Father gets it in his head to drag Rhaenys back to the Red Keep and cage her once again? She would rather die than live in the shadows of that wretched castle again.

Her only comfort is that Daenerys will never let him use her dragons for his own purposes. Daenerys and Ser Jonnel Arryn are fond of each other, as Margaery and Robar Royce are, and if Father had any sense they should be married in the Vale as of last year. But instead they remain in the Red Keep as Father slowly loses grip on his mind. Daenerys and Lysella together form a barrier against Father, and Lyanna and—Rhaenys flinches just to think of what they named Lyanna’s youngest son. A pale little baby with silver-gold hair and indigo eyes, the image of his father. They named him Aegon. Aegon! Dorne was in an uproar for weeks after _Aegon’s_ birth and even now a silent moon later Rhaenys knows that Uncle Doran and Arianne and all the Dornishmen in the world will never forgive this insult. Rhaenys certainly won’t.

“You’re thinking about the South again,” Robb murmurs as he kisses down her neck to her shoulders. Rhaenys grouses that if they would stop being idiots she could stop thinking about them but alas, King Bastard sits the throne with a red priestess and a replacement son. Robb kisses her breasts through her dress, and he grins when she loses track of her complaints. “All this stress isn’t good for the babe, isn’t that what the maesters say?”

Rhaenys shivers with delight as he nudges her dress up. They cannot lay with each other as that will harm the babe, but he is rather creative in suiting her ravenous needs when she is heavy with child. He traces runes on the strip of skin above her stocking and beneath her shift, and whispers _“onliðe”_ in the Old Tongue. At once she is pleasantly warm and relaxed, and Rhaenys grins at him; it ought to be considered cheating to use his runecraft but she’s not complaining. She raises an eyebrow and says, “That they do. How should we keep to their advice, my lord husband?”

“By letting me be a comfort to you, my lady wife.” Then he puts his head up beneath her quilted petticoats and Rhaenys stops worrying for a while.

When Wylla comes to report strange rumors from near the Dreadfort, Rhaenys and Robb are presentable again and going over the granary stockpiles. Wylla says, “Remember how I got that anonymous message about the Bolton bastard shooting the most dangerous game, and without proof we couldn’t do much about it?” Her face is as serious as a grave, and the rare sight fills Rhaenys with dread. “Well, now they claim to have proof. There’s bodies in the woods that they claim were eaten by his hellhounds.”

“Ramsay Snow has a pack of _hellhounds_ _?”_

“Who is to say with the Boltons. Either way there’s dead women who died in agony and the smallfolk in the Lonely Hills are terrified. This may be our chance to finally topple the Bolton threat—how should I respond?”

Robb stands up. “We will respond, personally.” He asks Wylla to summon Arya and Brienne, and Rhaenys prepares herself for the worst.

They will fly to the Lonely Hills on Mooncatcher, Rhaenys included as she is the only one who can dare command Mooncatcher. No one wants her to face a pack of hellhounds, but Rhaenys shrugs off their anxieties; a show of force from both the Young Wolf and the Lady Witch will soothe the villagers under threat by the Boltons. And truth be told, she is uncomfortable with the idea of Robb and the party riding there on horses, vulnerable to attack by brigands…well, if the seditious lords of the North dare attack the Starks at Winterfell, they will face her wrath.

Robb and Rhaenys use a carefully designed harness to secure Grey Wolf and Nymeria to Mooncatcher’s back. Mooncatcher is the size of a modest house, and her siblings are even larger. Rhaenys reminds herself to find bonded riders for Sunchaser and Dreamfyre. Perhaps Aemon and Visenya will have better luck with them than Daenerys’s dragons, or Viserys across the seas, or some purple-eyed merchant from Lys. She is thankful that Mooncatcher, and all of her beautiful swirls of purple and blue and white, doesn’t fuss when they climb upon her back. Instead she waits patiently, and huffs steam into Rhaenys’s face to make her giggle; just as Grey Wind likes to nuzzle and lick her face until she’s crawling away in laughter. And Mooncatcher is ever eager to bathe those who her dragon-mother hates with moonlit fire.

Brienne is still not used to flying by dragonback—to be fair, it’s not something a sane person can ever get used to—and she sets her face in a determined grimace. “My lady, are you sure that Mooncatcher can carry all of us? I don’t want to hurt her by accident, and there’s also your delicate state to consider.”

Rhaenys pats her dragon’s neck and she snorts. She can feel the smugness glowing beneath Mooncatcher's scales, just how Robb can probably now feel Grey Wind’s annoyance at being in a glorified saddlebag. “Don’t worry, it’s safer on her back than by horse, and faster. I am safest with Mooncatcher than anywhere else, I dare say.” She climbs up and nestles herself with her stomach against Mooncatcher’s warm violet scales and her back against Arya’s chest. Arya’s deceptively strong arms hold her in a loose embrace, with Robb and Brienne behind them both. Wylla calls at them to be careful, and they fly into the frigid mist.

They land on the edge of the Bolton lands in a no-name hamlet full of terrified smallfolk. Wylla’s anonymous source is an old woman with a missing eye, three teeth and a defiant set to her jaw. “Me granddaughter Tansy was taken tae the Bolton castle.” she spits. “Aye, we ken that Bloody Ramsay Snow killin’ lasses in the woods. But we cooldnae dae anything about it until yer dragons grew tae the size ay houses.” The old woman sneers and it’s a sneer that demands justice. “Bring ‘er home, an’ hang the bloody dobber.”

Robb nods, and he projects perfect calm and power. Here is the Lord of Winterfell come to aid his people. “Give us something of Tansy’s, and we’ll find her. And if Ramsay Snow has killed her,” he growls, “he willnae be getting a mere hanging.”

Two local scouts, Artos and Geralt, found the bones of a woman in the woods that Tansy is missing in. With them as their guides, the group heads into the woods. Mooncatcher flies above the tree line as the woods is too thick for her to walk. Much to Rhaenys’s anger, it begins to rain, muddying the smells of the woods until everything smells green and grey. “Can Grey Wind and Nymeria still find Tansy’s scent in this downpour?”

“They will,” Arya reassures her. Brienne and Arya stick close to Rhaenys’s sides, and Arya complains, “At least you have your bow on you, and Robb his spear. But if there are hellhounds, whatever that actually means, you better protect yourself first and foremost.”

Rhaenys pats her swollen belly. “I doubt you two will let anything hurt me, but I swear I won’t put myself into unnecessary danger.” She teases, “That’s Robb’s job.”

Before Robb can respond, Nymeria howls and Artos motions for them to halt. Nymeria bounds ahead, then stops at the trunk of a large redwood and paws at the ground. To their horror, she’s found a bloodied fragment of what was once an arm. The arm has a homemade twine bracelet; tears spring to Rhaenys’s eyes. Rhaenys asks, “Is this Tansy?”

“No, milady.”

They raise their heads to see a pale girl huddled in the highest branches of the tree. It’s hard to see in the rain, but Rhaenys can see the feathered end of an arrow sticking out of Tansy’s thigh. Geralt calls out to her asking if she’s hurt, and Tansy replies in a faint voice muffled by the rain, “Aye, but I still live. Kyra is dead. The hellhounds tint track of me, but I coulds hear them frae up here.”

Rhaenys asks Mooncatcher to come down, and Tansy shrieks to see a full-grown dragon descending to her tree hideout. Eventually they convince her to crawl onto Mooncatcher and the dragon lands awkwardly into a small clearing. Artos pulls her into his arms and she clings to him in pain and fear and relief. There is thunder in Robb’s eyes, and asks her, “Was it just you and Kyra?”

“Kyra, Violet and me. Reek shot me,” she hisses, “the disgusting bastard. Ramsay and his Reek hunt us smallfolk for sport with the hellhounds, and we cannae do anything ‘bout it since Lord Bolton rules these here lands.” Tansy gasps in pain with the arrow in her thigh jostles, and she begs them, “Get them before they find out I live.”

Artos returns to the village with Tansy and they continue onward. Arya and Robb mutter to each other how Lord Bolton will pay for this and how Domeric might know something. Rhaenys wipes at her eyes, still haunted by the sight of the bracelet on Kyra’s arm. Brienne asks, “Is there anything I can do for you, my lady?”

Rhaenys presses her lips together. “Can you dispatch the Lord’s Justice?”

Brienne nods. “Gladly.”

They come across a clearing in the wood, and to Rhaenys’s despair they find the remains of both Kyra and Violet. She turns away, afraid she will vomit breakfast, and smells an odd stench of sulfur. The river song buzzes in her veins, and from her bond with Mooncatcher she senses a sudden danger. Mooncatcher screeches, and the direwolves run ahead before they can be reigned in. Wretched snarling from a thousand nightmares melded together answers Grey Wind’s howls, and the hellhounds come.

There’s a dozen of them, surrounding them as if conjured from smoke. They are nearly Nymeria’s size, reeking of sulfur and brimstone and blood. They bare their teeth, stained with the blood of the Bolton’s victims, and they begin to howl. Rhaenys gasps and clasps her hands over her ears. To her left, she sees her companions falter, and the hellhounds come closer.

Absolutely not! There is a river here, the river in the sky raining down upon them. Rhaenys puts her hands together and splays her fingers as if they are the petals of a tulip. She declares a single syllable that is truly twenty words layered together in a glorious chord. And just as Rhaenys commands, the rains around them muffle the horrendous sound of the hellhounds so that they can all think again. She yells out to Mooncatcher in High Valyrian, “Burn the hounds! Leave the humans for our swords!”

Mooncatcher roars and a curtain of dark purple flames streaked with pale blue fall upon the hellhounds. Robb draws his Valyrian sword, Frost, and growls a strong of words. At once the runes carved into the rippling steel glow a pale white, and Robb stands firm like the Warrior made flesh. A hellhound charges him and leaps up to tackle Robb. Robb swings up his sword and guts the hellhound groin to gullet. It shrieks and steaming entrails spill out, igniting the grass beneath them with bizarre purple flames. Rhaenys gasps as Robb’s cloak catches fire, and with a desperate swing of her arms the rain above Robb’s head condenses into one great drop of water. It collapses over his back and puts out most of the flames, but not all. Robb tears off his cloak and yells, “Beware their blood! Don’t get too close!” He throws his Valyrian steel spear into a hellhound’s flank and pins it to the ground so he can strike it dead.

“Behind me, my lady!” Brienne steps in front of Rhaenys and strikes at a hellhound. But Brienne’s steel sword, while it’s as finely crafted as Frost, does not leave a mark on the fell beast. She stabs it in it’s snarling mouth and it bites down on her sword. They are both stunned to see the hellhound chew at the metal as if it were a bone.

Rhaneys draws an arrow from her quiver and nocks it on her goldenheart bow. The arrows in her quiver are a mix of iron tipped and dragonglass tipped. An arrowhead of iron to the eye to a hellhound does nothing, bouncing off of it like putty. An arrowhead of dragonglass pierces straight through its skull and it collapses to the ground dead.

“Steel doesn’t work!” Geralt abandons his bitten down sword and heaves a rock at a hellhound’s face to distract it.

“Dragonglass does!” Rhaenys pulls the dragonglass stilettos from her hair that keep her intricate bun up. With her hair now matted down her back, Rhaenys hands Brienne the stilettos. “Geralt, Arya, fall back!” She shrieks when a hellhound attacks her from behind; she falls away and only suffers a scratch to her arm instead of having her face clawed off. Her arm burns wildly, the wound a livid red, and she resists the urge to touch her wound with her good hand. She grabs at her side desperately for some sort of weapon, and takes the long silver pin pinning her cloak to her dress’s bodice. She wildly stabs the hellhound through the snout with the silver pin and to her surprise, it falls down shrieking in agony. She shoots it through the eye with a dragonglass arrow to put the fell beast down for good; she nearly misses from the pain searing up her arm.

Fear suddenly strikes at her heart. Rhaenys whips her head around to see Robb pinned beneath a hellhound, Frost out of his reach. Its jaws snap at his neck, only kept away by Robb’s strength. Rhaenys cries out for her husband and Arya charges for her brother. But hellhounds surround her, and Geralt must fight his way towards her with only rocks and a backup dagger. To the west, Mooncatcher howls in pain as hellhounds attack and drag her down from the sky, and she feels her dragon’s pain as if it were her own scales being torn at. No, no!

Insidious laughter echoes from the trees. Two voices, two men. Rhaenys’s blood boils. Oh, Ramsay Snow and Reek are watching them be torn apart? As they did with Kyra and Violet? She grits her teeth and hands her quiver and bow to Brienne. As skilled as she is, she hardly managed to shoot a target not three feet from her face. “Can you shoot straight, Brienne?” Robb yells when the hellhound bites his shoulder and Rhaenys begs, “Can you shoot straight?!”

“I have no choice but to!” Brienne takes the bow, and with determination heavy in her brow she shoots the hellhound atop Robb in the neck. It shrieks and rolls away from Robb.

Rhaenys sinks to her knees, her arm in hideous pain and tears stinging at her eyes. And Ramsay continues to laugh, the bloody fucking bastard! She claws at the ground and presses her forehead to the muddied earth. She can smell the rain, the mulch and moss, layers and layers of ancient earth down deep. She smells water, raging like the hate in her soul, and calls upon it. She squeezes her eyes shut and curses Ramsay Snow and his whore with all the wrath of the Mother. _“In Her waters, deep and true, lie the answers, and a path for you. Dive down deep into Her sound...…dive down deep into Her sound...”_

The ground shakes and the burning blood on her arm spills onto the earth in ruby red drops. It mixes with the rain and her tears, and Rhaenys yells, _“Dive down deep into Her sound! But not too far, or you’ll be **drowned!”**_

Steam erupts from fissures in the ground and burn the hellhounds in a fire of its own. Raging water from an underground hot spring floods the forest, sweeping away hellhounds and boiling them alive. Everyone hits the ground and covers their heads. Rhaenys sees Robb draw runes in the mud and sing a song of his own in the Old Tongue, commanding the hellhounds to falter in their steps, for Mooncatcher to have the strength to fight, for the cravens in the forest to meet their fates. Someone shrieks in fatal agony and Rhaenys knows that one of the bastards has met their fate.

When the steam abates, there is silence and murky heat clinging to their soaked and bloodied bodies. Rhaenys is separated from the rest by a great fissure in the ground. She looks behind her to see Grey Wind dragging a terribly burnt body towards her. He drops a hulking man with a baby face and pale Bolton eyes at her feet. Half of his skin is sloughing off from the hot springs’ wrath, and she knows that he is in agony. Rhaenys sneers. Good. She demands, “Ramsay Snow, Bastard of the Dreadfort, you have consorted with abominations. You have murdered multiple women for sport. And you have attempted to murder your liege lords. What do you have to say in your defense?”

Ramsay howls with laughter. His hands twist and rip, and he tears off his doublet and a great chunk of his skin to throw in Grey Wind’s face. The boiling water soaked into the fabric blinds the direwolf, and he snarls, running away from the pain. Before Rhaenys can react, Ramsay has a dagger in his hand and stabs her in her injured arm. She screams and falls, and the bastard climbs on top of her. He tries to slit her throat, but Rhaenys has her own dagger and stabs him to the hilt in his shoulder. Ramsay keeps laughing, and wraps a giant, sticky, putrid hand around her throat. “I’ve never rid the world of a witch whore,” he cackles. “Nor have I ever skinned a dragon bitch! House Bolton makes history today!” He snatches her dagger with his free hand and presses the edge against her heaving belly. Ramsay presses down, splitting the wool and linen. “I don’t have much time, keep still—”

Geralt launches himself over the fissure and tackles Ramsay before he can cut properly into her flesh. They wrestle, and Geralt gasps, before falling back and clutching at his intestines spilling from a deep gouge in his stomach. Rhaenys screams, “NO!” Grey Wolf returns. His eyes glow white, warg white, and clamps his jaws down on Ramsay’s ankle. Before the bastard can crawl away, Grey Wind crunches down, and Ramsay screams.

Then Grey Wolf rips him apart, piece by bloody piece. Nymeria and Mooncatcher join in, and by the time Rhaenys catches her breath and crawls to Geralt’s side, there is nothing left of the bloody bastard. Rhaenys watches as if in a trance, seeing other peoples’ rage mixing with the rage of the direwolves and the dragon. Mooncatcher screams with bloodlust and Rhaenys screams along with her.

Once Ramsay is dead, Rhaenys cradles Geralt as close to her chest as she can manage. Rain mats her hair to her cheeks, and when she wipes at her face his blood smears onto her skin. She sobs once, then puts on a brave face. “Who is your family, Geralt?” She smiles. “We must honor them, for their son saved the Lady Witch of Winterfell and her child.”

“I’ve no one,” Geralt breathes. “Just an orphan.” His eyes fill with sadness. “Nae anybody will bury me.”

He coughs up blood and she wipes it away with her sleeve, damn the dress. “I will.” The rest of her companions make their way around the fissure. She looks up at Robb, who looks entirely defeated. “Will full honors befit a hero of the North.” Brienne squeezes her eyes shut and Arya covers her hand with her mouth so that they can’t hear her crying.

Geralt smiles with bloody teeth. “Me? Honored by a dragon princess? Who would’ve ever thought.” His breaths grow shallower, and he murmurs, “‘Tis a good death tae die for the Young Wolf and the Lady Witch, and their bairn.” His breathing stops all together and his blood cools. Rhaenys weeps. Grey Wind, Nymeria and Mooncatcher all howl, and her companions raise their swords to salute this smallfolk scout with a gap between his teeth and a thick Northern accent and more honor in his little finger than most lords combined.

They bring his body back to the village with the remains of the women and the remains of the hellhounds. Villagers shriek to see the gruesome monsters and the blood covering their bodies. Tansy is alive, clinging to her grandmother, and she weeps to see Geralt’s body. “Someone bring fresh linen sheets,” Robb commands, “and shroud the Hero of the Lonely Hills, and the Brave Women of the Bloody Woods.” He clutches Rhaenys’s hand and lays it upon her bloodied stomach. “Ramsay Snow, the Bloody Bolton Bastard, tried to carve my bairn from my wife’s stomach. He killed your lasses, he killed your lad, and I wulnae see this go unanswered for!” His voice is rough, like fairy tales of wildling kings beyond the Wall, and Rhaenys sees how it affects the smallfolk. They morph from fear and dejection to energized, lionized anger and pride. “Lord Bolton thinks that he can dae whatever he wants without punishment. Aye, but I say nae!”

“Nae!” the smallfolk cry, and Rhaenys thrums with their power. Mooncatcher screams in agreement, drawing up another cheer from the village.

Robb raises their joined hands. “Your Young Wolf and Lady Witch will bring you justice! And our justice is the Old Way: we’ll swing our swords, be they steel or fire or direwolf! Ramsay Snow is dead! Now, we celebrate the Hero and the Brave Women!” And just like that, a time of grief transforms into a time of victory and feasting; such is the way of the North.

Tansy’s grandmother gifts her a traditional Northern dress of a thick woolen tawny kirtle and forest green surcoat, and a giant scarf in the Stark colors wound around her body and hair. Tansy’s grandmother used to be a seamstress for a previous Lady Stark, and when she retired that Lady Stark gave her the scarf as a gift. The old lady says, “Have it fur yerself, milady. It suits yer mirk skin.” From the way Robb and the smallfolk smile at her, dressed as a maid out of a Northern ballad, Rhaenys feels some of her bitterness towards the North ebb away.

She speaks with Tansy about her experiences with the Boltons and learns that a dozen Brave Women have their bones scattered in the Lonely Hills. She promises to bring them to rest, and to pay for Tansy’s dowry and for a dozen dresses. Tansy blushes when Artos smiles at her from across the feast, and Rhaenys is glad that the poor girl can find some happiness after this.

When they return to Winterfell, the word spreads up and down the rivers like wildfire: Lord Bolton’s bastard and his whore allied himself with fell hellhounds to hunt down women for sport in the woods. That he tried to kill Lord and Lady Stark and nearly cut Lady Stark’s babe from her belly. And that Lord Bolton knew, and did nothing. Before Rhaenys can say anything, Wylla pulls her into Winterfell’s Great Keep and whisper-screams, “I put out the arrest warrant for Lord Bolton and Ser Rodrik is on his way to the Dreadfort with a host of a thousand men, just in case the Boltons their allies get uppity. I also sent for Ser Domeric, he’ll be on the next ship to White Harbor.”

Rhaenys nods, then tells Maester Luwin and Sarella, “We brought back hellhounds for you to study. I hope you can figure out what created them, and how to kill them.” Her stomach clenches as she remembers how Robb nearly had his throat torn out by a hellhound’s snarling jaws, and the bite mark in his shoulder. Were it not for Brienne, she would be short a husband, she must thank her somehow. “And see to Robb, he’s too stubborn to admit that he’s injured.”

“Lady Rhaenys,” Sarella says with concern, “are you injured?”

Rhaenys can hardly hear her. All she can see, smell, and hear are the hellhounds. Such a wretched stink, like the heart of the Doom of Valyria. And yet, she can imagine them burning with ice instead. Yes, the song in her veins sees it too, hellhounds made of ice scavenging Winterfell and its citizens as blue snow falls and the Night King raises his arms.

She gasps at the rush of fluid emptying onto the floor. Then there are hands grabbing everywhere, and voices yelling, and herself screaming that she’s not birthing her babe in the kitchens like birthing a turnip—and then it’s over before she knows it. The sun dawns pale into her chambers, and she’s bathed and re-dressed with her babes. Two babes, two sons. Both have lighter skin than she and Alia, although still a true olive rather than Northern fair. The eldest babe has a full head of brown curls, while his twin is bald with only faint wisps of colorless hair. And both their eyes are a milky newborn pale, a thousand possibilities of color in their irises. They are soft, and wriggling, with ten fingers and ten toes and wrinkled pink skin and smushed little faces and hungry red mouths.

Not since Alia has she seen anything so beautiful, so blessed. She thanks the Mother and the gods old and new for her fortune. And while she waits for Robb and her family to return, she whispers to them a lullaby. “Where the north wind meets the sea, there’s a river full of memory. Sleep my darlings, safe and sound…” Her babes gurgle and she sees a flash of what could be: her sons, one dark and one light, one burly and one lithe, both with violet eyes and Robb’s smile.

The door open and she turns her head away from such a lovely vision. Robb, tears rolling unashamed down his cheeks, kneels by her bedside. His shoulder is wrapped in stained linen that smell of healing herbs, to match the linen wrapped around Rhaenys’s arm. Bless Sarella and her knowledge, they might have hardly a scar from this battle. Robb kisses her forehead. “My love,” his voice breaks, “they’re beautiful.”

Alia wiggles her way in between Robb and Rhaenys so she can see her little brothers for herself. “What are their names, Mama?” She carefully presses a kiss to both of the babe’s pillowy cheeks. The babes mewl and Alia smiles with pure delight. “They’re soft and warm like my kitty Goose. I like them.” She pats Rhaenys’s hand. “They need good names because I like them.”

“Beron,” Rhaenys whispers, “and Geralt.”

Robb nods, and murmurs, “May they honor those names.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More babies! I wanted Alia to have a traditional Martell name and Beron to have a traditional Stark name, but any kids after them will have original names since I’m entirely burned out on variations of Brandon and Targaryen diphthongs. There’s a lot of Gerolds, Gerrolds and Geralds in Westeros, so Geralt is a nice variant. It’s also a reference to The Witcher series which I’m lowkey obsessed with.
> 
> I’ve decided that the North is medieval fantasy Scotland with touches of Ireland, and that the smallfolk speak with a Scots accent, thick or mild depending on age and rural vs urban. Robb himself can speak like a true smallfolk rogue if he so desires, since many of the servants in Winterfell speak with accents. But lords of the North, and especially the children of mild-tongued Catelyn Stark, usually reign their accents in check. Rhaenys herself has a light Dornish/Spanish accent thanks to Arianne’s influence in her childhood and to clinging to her mother’s accent. Alia somehow has both and it’s great.
> 
> This was the first action scene in my story and not gonna lie, it was a struggle to write it. I much prefer writing dialogue than writing about people fighting for their lives against monsters. Considering what I have planned for later, I’m setting myself up for a lot of frustration lmao maybe I should hire someone to write battle scenes for me (cries in broke teacher)
> 
> Next chapter is the fallout of Ramsay Snow’s murders, and more information about what’s happening in KL. The lyrics of Rhaenys’s rage song comes from “All Is Found” with a much more murderous context. For added drama, imagine that her voice is not just Rhaenys’s voice, but layered with the voice of Elia and their mothers before them.


	12. The Question

Rhaenys stays in bed after the birth, recovering from both her injuries caused in battle and from childbed. Beron is fussier than Geralt, drinking milk too quickly and then spitting it back up again. And when Geralt cries, he weeps for what seems like hours. But Rhaenys doesn’t mind, not when her arms are filled with her sons and they are alive and warm and sweet and alive.

She forgoes bothering with proper gowns and stays in her shift and casual kirtle. She has her documents and the chairs from her solar moved to her bedroom. All her ladies sew around her bed, Wynafryd nursing her own son Willem and Elaena her daughter Myra while the babes battle for Rhaenys’s attention. Once the babes are all quieted and content, Rhaenys sits up in her mound of pillows and asks, “Have they found Lord Bolton?”

The bastard had taken flight before Ser Rodrick could apprehend him. And just as Rhaenys knew, Houses Ryswell, Dustin and Flint of both the mountains and Flint’s Finger are doing fuck-all to aid them. Oh, how _loyal_ the Stark bannermen are when it suits them! Randa shakes her head and Rhaenys sighs. So be it then; if he wants to be chased down like a dog, then they’ll send out dogcatchers and drag him back by his remaining hair. “How is the North taking the existence of hellhounds?”

“Badly,” Wylla says. “We’ve had some monsters in the woods for the past five years, but this is a new sort of terror to have. Lord Robb sent out ravens to every keep, town, village and hamlet warning everyone that all the legends are coming true.”

“Did he say that fire, dragonglass, Valyrian steel and silver all work?”

“Yes, and that if they fear for their safety, they may relocate to the winter town.” The winter towen is a proper winter city with how the North has exploded in wealth and population, but the name is a comfort of times when things were simpler.

Rhaenys asks Sarella, “Do you know why silver and dragonglass work as well as Valyrian steel to cut down monsters? I saw those hellhounds eat normal steel and iron like bones, yet my little silver pin struck a monster as if it were a hot iron.”

Sarella shrugs. “We’ve completed our autopsies and sent around our findings. The Citadel has a multitude of theories. Maester Cressen himself has a theory that since silver, dragonglass, and Valyrian steel are all purified by fire, they can be considered a form of fire in themselves. And fire has shown itself to be the key in destroying unpure creatures.” Sarella pauses, then smirks, “Direwolves are legend in a way, so I suppose that legend works against legend. You said that you burned the hellhounds torn apart by Grey Wind and Nymeria?”

“Yes, and thank the gods for that foresight.” Rhaenys sees the distaste on her ladies’s faces, then claps her hands together. “I have a task for everyone. In Winterfell’s library there are archives of children’s tales and legends of the Far North. I have my own books about Dorne, and Randa and Ysabel’s books about the Vale. Read through them, and if you find more information about monsters and how to defeat them, write them in this ledger here.” Rhaenys taps a large, blank book. “I’ll have it sent to Oldtown and mass-printed in their marvelous printing press once we have more information. All of Westeros must prepare themselves, and our allies across the world.”

“The Long Night is finally coming, isn’t it?” Alys gives the ledger a baleful glance. “Winter is Coming, those are the Stark words. Daryn and I are afraid to have children when an army of the dead comes, who’s to say they won’t be orphaned?”

Rhaenys reaches over to hold Alys’s hands. “We’ve been preparing for this for five years. Have faith.” They must have faith, otherwise everyone will die.

Later she reads through her tome on Dorne, with Alia sitting at her side and coloring. Alia tells her, “I read a story about a lamp who had a grumpkin inside who gave wishes. If there’s now bad dogs, can we have grumpkins too?” Rhaenys assures her that if grumpkins are in lamps, they will politely release the grumpkin and help him find a new home in the wolfswood. Rhaenys, inspired by the idea, searches for lamps and discovers a legend of a desert djinn contained in a silver lamp. It granted three wishes that often ended poorly for the wisher if the wishes were selfish in nature and ended sweetly for selfless wishes. And when it was freed, it materialized as whirlwinds of sand and fire. If a djinn turned evil, it’s nature of hot fire could only be slain by cold fire. Cold fire? “Where have I heard that,” she murmurs to herself.

“Heard what, Mama?”

“This story says that there’s cold fire in the world. But I don’t know what cold fire is.”

Alia mimics Robb’s concentration stance. Then she smiles, “Auntie Dany went to Dragonstone and she wrote a letter and said that word. Zirtys perzyss.”

Rhaenys’s eyes widen. Zirtys perzyss is High Valyrian for frozen fire, and the word for dragonglass. She grins and kisses Alia’s cheek. “Oh, you’re so smart my little dragonrose! Can you go tell Papa to come here?” Alia scampers off and Rhaenys drafts letters to Aemon, Arianne, Edwin, Branda, Shireen, Viserys and Oberyn. They must know of the growing dangers and how to fight. She even drafts a formal letter to Father and to the Sealord of Braavos. Robb comes in with Alia and Rhaenys holds out her hand. “Come, bring our boys and let’s cuddle together and read some stories.” Alia cheers with joy and Rhaenys smiles at Robb. “A story about djinns in the desert, and how they brought together a princess and her warrior love.”

For a precious hour, there are no horrors to the North nor seditious lords. It’s simply Rhaenys, Robb and their wonderful children. Her heart is the candlelight softly illuminating Alia’s hair and eyes. Robb adds voices that bring Alia to giggles and amuse the newborns who hardly understand what’s happening other than that they’re safe and loved. Rhaenys bottles this moment and makes a song of it deep within her bones.

Alia falls asleep between Rhaenys and Rob, with Beron lying on Robb’s chest and Geralt on Rhaenys’s. Robb sighs and runs his fingers through Rhaenys’s hair. “I wrote to the king,” he murmurs. “I will formally put Lord Bolton on trial in absentia for murder and trial. It’s not ideal, it’s very rare for a Northern man to be tried while he is not here to defend himself.” Robb furrows his brows. “There’s nothing to be done about it, we cannot delay justice on account of his cowardice. I can’t ask Domeric to speak against his own father, but the servants in the Dreadfort are singing like canaries now that the bloody bastard is dead and Bolton took off. The trial will be in a week, no more than a fortnight. Edwin, Meera, Branda and Ned are all coming to give us support. Mother and Da are on their way too, although I doubt they’ll make it in time.” He sighs deep from his chest. “I warged into Grey Wind when I saw that bastard on top of you, Rhae. I’ve never lost control like that.”

Rhaenys kisses his palm. “Is it really losing control if you achieved the same end as executing him with your sword?”

“I savaged him like a wild animal.” He shudders. “Arya told me she did the same with Nymeria, but on purpose. I wish that I had that sense of control, it was pure instinct and—and bloodlust.”

“You saved my life, and the babes’.” She leans over and kisses his cheek. “Unburden yourself, my love. I promise to stay by your side if you feel like you’re losing yourself.” He shivers then leans over to kiss her. She says, “Let’s put the children to bed, it’s dangerous to all sleep in the same bed. The babes’ heads are fragile like fresh sponge cakes, and it’s a sin to waste food.” He laughs at the morbid imagery presented in a sweet voice. She pauses, then asks, “Do you think it wise if I have a Manderly knight Brienne? She saved your life, which then saved all our lives. I can’t think of a better example of a knight than she. I’d do it myself but only knights can knight knights, it is said.”

Robb ponders this as he sets Alia in her bed in her own chamber, and the boys in their cradles in Alia’s old nursery. He changes into his sleeping shift and helps her change. Then he sits on the bed and steeples his fingers. “It’s never been done before. But…why not?” He huffs a laugh. “There’s hellhounds in the forests, there’s dragons and direwolves sleeping in the godswood, there’s runes on my sword that I carved myself by the behest of the old gods, there’s rivers all over Westeros you’ve sung into being. Why can’t she be a knight if she deserves it?”

Rhaenys nudges him so that he sits up against the bedframe. She carefully scoots herself down so that she can kiss his stomach. Robb inhales sharply and his hand tangles in her hair. “We all deserve happiness,” she says against the thin fabric. She kisses lower, feeling the panes of his muscles heat up beneath her touch. He groans her name and it makes her shiver. “Let me make you happy, as you make me.”

The trial in absentia of Lord Bolton will place after a moon, once they’ve gathered all their evidence and witnesses. If he doesn’t want to attend his own trial, it will take place without him and that’s his own problem. Rhaenys tells Robb so, and he slowly nods. “It will take time to root him out, and justice is demanded for the Brave Women. Maybe this will encourage his conspirators to turn him in?” She isn’t quite as optimistic.

Rhaenys makes good on her promise and Brienne is knighted in the Great Hall with all of Winterfell’s host in attendance. Brienne is overwhelmed when she swears her vows, but when Wylla’s father Ser Wylis taps her shoulders with his sword and bids Ser Brienne to rise, Brienne smiles and it’s the loveliest thing in the world. Rhaenys bids Sarella to inform the king of her actions; not asking for permission, nor forgiveness.

True to Robb’s word, his siblings all assemble. Edwin looks much like Robb, and Meera glows with health; she suffered from constant colds in Winterfell so Rhaenys is glad for her returned vitality. Rhaenys embraces her, happy to see her even in such dark times. Branda and Ned are also quite happy, freckled and salt-stained from their merry adventures in the Bay of Ice. Branda is in the midst of her first pregnancy, and bemoans that “I haven’t gotten all of my fun out before I’m stuck in confinement chambers. I have to do this nine more times?!” They have a private dinner together, most of the Starks reunited with Branda and Edwin demanding Arya recall all of her misadventures with Brienne in Kings Landing again now that she’s here in person to tell those tales. Alia is a touch shy at first, but she warms up to them before pudding is served and happily suggests names for Branda’s unborn babe. And of course, everyone dotes on Beron and Geralt who snuggle and act entirely like sweet newborn kittens. Moooncatcher lets them all admire her scales and she preens under their attention, ever the prideful lady.

Rhaenys feels rejuvenated after family time, and it gives her the strength she needs for the trial. They host the trial in the Great Hall, the only place large enough for the crowds of gentry and smallfolk who come to witness the fall of their most despised lord. It starts off in an outrageous note, with Lord Ryswell looking into Robb’s eyes and declaring, “I reject this trial, my lord. Lord Bolton is not here to defend himself. None of the jurors are fit to judge him, lowborn as they are. Worst of all, I refuse to stand by and see a true Northerner accused of crimes by a Dornish whore.” The crowds explode in anger and Rhaenys rolls her eyes. The absolute cunt. “I know what I’ve heard to be true, my lords. Rhaenys Stark is a witch, and Robb Stark is a skinchanger who tups his wife in the body of his direwolf.” More yelling and Robb looks murderous. Lord Ryswell raises his chin. “For all I know, the whore conjured the hellhounds to stage this entire event, just to spite those who aren’t under her influence.”

The crowds threaten to riot until all three dragons roar, and everyone falls silent. Robb glares at Lord Ryswell. “For the slander against me I can ignore as the desperate words of a fool protecting a craven. But for the slander against my wife, the mother of my children—speak again out of turn about Lady Stark and you lose a tongue. I dare say Grey Wolf will eat it raw.” He nods at the jurors. “Let the trial begin.”

Wylla and Randa have collected no less than thirty witnesses from the Dreadfort with the aid of Wylla’s spy, and from the people of the Lonely Hills. They speak of obscene rites within the Dreadfort, where Lord Bolton skins alive his prisoners and claims they die of disease or lawful execution. Lord Ryswell and Lady Dustin deny every witness as false. Tansy takes the stand with a cane to support her leg. She recounts how Ramsay and Reek hunted down her, Kyra and Violet like foxes, and how she was saved. “Aye, I was a bedwarmer for the bloody bastard,” she sniffs. “Only coz Lord Bolton forced me. Said that his bastard treated women rough, and smallfolk are only worth tae be used by their betters.”

Lady Dustin sneers, “How convenient. More fabrications from a lowborn whore.”

Tansy smiles, sweet as a peach. “The only whore was Reek, the bloody thrall. And he and the bloody bastard got what they deserved. All cheers tae the Young Wolf and the Lady Witch.”

Were it not for the Bolton allies, the trial would be a smooth victory. Alas, Rhaenys knows that the North still is suspicious of her water witching and her Dornish and Targaryen blood, of how she’s gathered ladies into her household from all over Westeros and how she’s invited the Reach to Northern farms. Lords Ryswell, Flint of Flint’s Finger, Flint of the northern mountains and Lady Dustin drag Rhaenys’s character over the coals in defense of Lord Bolton. At least Lord Bolton’s crimes are crimes they all knew about since the Age of Heroes, they argue. But what of Rhaenys’s crimes of bringing dragons to Winterfell, the home of the Winter Kings and the King Who Knelt? What of her wicked ways of acting as if she were a man and not merely a man’s wife? What does she know of Northern customs? Rhaenys narrows her eyes and nods slightly at Wylla.

Wylla nods and steps forward. “I don’t trust a word of that, my lords! If we are to sit here and say the Boltons are entitled to skinning people alive and hunting women in the forests for sport, then I suppose we should allow every crime against the North! Let the wildlings come and take our livestock and ladies away, let marauders come and cut down our weirwoods, let criminals run free! What you are demanding is the destruction of justice, Lady Dustin! Lord Bolton must pay for his crimes, it is our way!”

Lady Dustin snaps back, “I don’t trust the Lady Stark. By her own testimony she summoned boiling water from deep within the earth to curse two of her own bannermen to a horrible death—and I’m to believe that we will see justice by her hand?”

People murmurs among themselves and Rhaenys asks in a clear, calm voice, “Did the Brave Women of the Bloody Woods see justice by Lord Bolton’s hand? Because,” and she motions for a servant to bring forth evidence complied by Wylla and Randa, “here are Lord Bolton’s own personal missives. He knew about his bastard’s actions and did nothing.”

The Bolton allies glare at Rhaenys with violent wrath. If they could, they would deliver her to Lord Bolton directly; he would skin her alive and make it last for days. She shivers, but then Mooncatcher and Grey Wild rumble. No man alive has yet to kill her with direwolves and dragons by her sides. She raises an eyebrow at them. “Giving me the evil eye won’t do you any good, my lords. You are no match for a hungry dragon at the crack of dawn.” The crowd snickers at them and she sees the way the supporters draw in on themselves.

“You are naught but an upstart whore! Taking our rights away!” Lord Flint points a gnarled finger at her. “You won’t be satisfied until you’ve finished what Alysanne the Dragon Bitch started a century past!”

Rhaenys stands up and demands, “Are you admitting you still partake in the forbidden first night, my lord?!” Everyone’s murmurs falter to a stop and Rhaenys delights in the sudden terror in Lord Flint’s face. Lady Dustin and Lord Ryswell are mortified as their hypocrisy crumbles down upon their heads. “My lord, please contain yourself. If you wanted a trial for your own crimes, rest assured we will get to them after we are done with Lord Bolton.” Grey Wind growls and she smiles. She says, “Back to the subject at hand, Lady Hornwood if you could describe your encounter with the late Ramsay Snow…”

The climax of the trial comes when Domeric, escorted by Sansa, bursts into the hall with a messenger. If Domeric were blessed with extraordinary vision, the Bolton allies would be struck dead by the absolute hatred in his brown eyes. The messenger hands a letter to Robb, who reads out to the court, “I have an official message from King Rhaegar Iron’s Bane. Ser Domeric Bolton, with Lady Sansa Stark as witness, has confessed to intimate knowledge of Roose Bolton, formerly Lord Bolton. On account of this knowledge, and in recognition of the trial currently gathering for Roose Bolton—the trial we are now attending, my lords, as this letter was written a week ago—the king has seen it fit to strip Roose Bolton of all titles and lands to be awarded to his son Ser Domeric.” Robb rolls up the letter and asks Domeric, “My Lord Bolton, what is this intimate knowledge that you know?”

“This is unfair!” Lady Dustin spits at him. “You have not called upon him as a witness, for all we know this letter is forged!”

Domeric takes the stand. “Be silent, aunt, you shame me.” Lady Dustin flinches as if struck. He sucks in a breath, then begins: “Everyone can recall the circumstances that drove me south to Kings Landing. But the truth is that we did not just merely have a falling out over my growing independence. No, I visited Ramsay Snow to get to know the half-brother I never had. He poisoned me and my valet Mister Tymeon. An innocent man died a wretched death because he shared a pitcher of wine with his own lord. Ramsay and his Reek gloated upon my would-be death bed that he was my father’s only heir. And when I did not die as planned, my father said that if I had any Bolton blood in me, I wouldn’t have been brought down by something as weak as poison.”

He pauses, then undoes the lacing of his doublet and undershirt. He reveals silvery strips on his back, and Rhaenys doesn’t understand until Robb gasps. “He flayed you?” Robb asks and all the people in the Great Hall fall deathly silent.

“For my weakness,” Domeric says. “He does this to all of his servants and to the smallfolk that trouble him. He never sent Ramsay away or punished him. He would’ve killed me with my father’s implicit agreement had not Lady Rhaenys in her wisdom sent me south. I kept silent out of shame, and fear that retaliation against my father would bring chaos to the North when Lord Robb and Lady Rhaenys’s rule was so young. I was a fool and thought that with me south, he would be satisfied.” Domeric sinks to his knees. “My lord, my lady, forgive me for not speaking sooner. The blood of the Brave Women and of the hero Geralt is on my hands for my craven silence. I swear to you by the old gods that once I was contacted about my father and half-brother’s murderous acts, I immediately confessed to His Grace the King and made for Winterfell.” He bows his head low enough for Rhaenys to see the back of his neck, where a strip of silver glows at the prominent bump in his spine. “If I am a traitor for my silence, I gladly give my life to your sword.”

The crowds erupt, calling Lord Bolton a vile bastard, a near-kinslayer. Sansa steps up and begs, “Please, spare Ser Domeric. It may be but my soft heart, but I cannot bear to see him die for this.” She gives Domeric a glance full of love and despair that squeezes at Rhaenys’s throat. She looks like the way Ser Jaime looked at Mama as she lay dying in his arms, so many years ago. Sansa says, “He told me that if it pleases you, he would forsake his name and raze the Dreadfort to the ground to atone for his family’s shame. That the name Bolton be lost to memory.”

Robb stands and calm returns to the trial. He steps down from his dais and pulls out his sword. Sansa gasps and Rhaenys clenches her fists. Then Robb taps Frost on both of Domeric’s shoulders, and declares, “Let it be known that Ser Domeric is no traitor in my eyes. He is but a good son with an evil, despicable father. I would gladly accept him at my table as my brother,” he smiles at Domeric and Sansa, who look up at him with wet eyes, “for he has proven himself to me to be more loyal than the entire history of House Bolton put together.” He gestures for them to both rise. “If you are determined to put away your name, then you may take the name of any bride who would have you.”

While Domeric and Sansa hug each other, Robb turns to the jurors. “Now for the matter of Roose Bolton’s guilt. We will give you a full day’s time to deliberate.” The jurors nod, and Robb tells the Great Hall, “We will commune the morning after next for the sentencing. The kitchen shall serve noonday meal to those who have traveled far from their homes!”

More feasting in the North, with Domeric sitting at the high table and the Bolton allies muttering darkly in a corner. Winterfell spies are among them, recording their every word, so Rhaenys spares them little thought. Instead, Rhaenys nods in satisfaction at the food served, fresh with exotic herbs, spices and foods from across the world. She has single-handedly turned haggis from a grim affair to something that rivals the stuffed grape leaves in Dorne. She adds more to her and Robb’s plates, smiling primly when Robb thanks his Northern lass. Ned and some younger lords egg each other on to season their duck with tiny serpent peppers from the Summer Isles, and they all require full mugs of ale to alleviate their burning tongues. Alia herself loves serpent peppers, although Rhaenys never lets her eat the seeds. Robb toasts his wife multiple times during the feast, just because he can, and Rhaenys blushes when later they dance in the Great Hall to the tune of Six Maids in a Pool. Were it not for the quiet tension tightening in the background, Rhaenys would be at pure peace.

To no one’s surprise, Roose Bolton is found guilty of torture, rape, flaying, being an accomplice to murder, and murderer in himself. Robb stands on the dais of the Great Hall, Frost drawn and its runes glowing a pale red. “In the name of Rhaegar of the House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, I, Robb of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence Roose Bolton to death for his crimes.” He makes direct eye contact with the blighted lord’s supporters. “If any subject of the realm is caught aiding them, they shall be accomplices to a traitor.”

That same day, Robb announces the betrothal between Sansa and Domeric. Domeric Bolton shall become Domeric Stark, and the Dreadfort razed to the ground to settle the ghosts trapped within its walls. No one is sad to see the dread keep go, and Domeric promises Robb and Rhaenys that he will root out the traitorous thoughts in the old Bolton supporters. “Aunt Barbery is bitter,” he explains. “Bitter that she never married a Stark as she thought was her due, bitter than her husband who died at the Trident for Lyanna Stark’s selfishness, bitter that I don’t share that same bitterness.”

“You don’t need to justify her actions,” Robb says and clasps Domeric’s shoulder. “We will be brothers, and there won’t be guilt between us, alright?”

Rhaenys smiles and pats Robb’s hand atop his shoulder. “Now let’s go and introduce you to the menagerie. I’m sure you’re already dear friends with Lady and Nymeria? Summer and Cora will love you then.”

Later, once they’ve had another family dinner where they all interrogated Sansa and Domeric about how they came to love each other and the couple turned beet red, Sansa comes to Rhaenys’s chambers. Rhaenys is reading a missive from Shireen who got her letter about the monsters and has replied with information of her own. “Merlings are real,” she tells Sansa, “and there seems to be a divide between merlings with rosy skin and rainbow scales, and merlings with pale skin and black scales. Woe betide the sailor who consorts with the second.” She tilts her head. “Did you need something?”

Sansa hands Rhaenys a letter. “When I left with Dom, Lady Margaery gave me this to give to you personally. Even with your cipher, she feared that the Red Woman would discover the letter and have the ravens burned out of the sky.” Sansa kisses Rhaenys’s cheek. “I’ll leave you to them, since I doubt it’s meant for my eyes. Good night.”

Rhaenys murmurs good night, then opens the letter.

_To the Lady Witch of Winterfell, the Sun Dragon, and the Dragon Lady, among other titles,_

_You would have received news a few moons ago that Aemon suffered pneumonia from swimming in the Blackwater Bay. The truth is that he was poisoned. This is the second time, by persons we don’t know and have yet to discover. I fear that the Red Bitch has her hand in it, for Aemon spoke fretfully of a shadow when he was recovering. By the grace of the Grand Maester he lived but the maester’s grace only extends as far as Aemon’s worth as heir to the throne. If King Bastard decides that he wants Aegon (forgive the insult) on the throne instead, Aemon will die. Simply as that._

_Dany didn’t think it prudent to write this letter as she does not believe this information, perhaps out of shock or defiance. But I must tell you the truth of the king’s intentions with the Targaryens. King Bastard, Queen Hysteria and Visenya are entirely thralls to prophecy. They speak to flames together, and we all know that they’re burning the prisoners in the black cells. King Bastard speaks of Aegon and the twins as if they will be the ones to lead Westeros to a new age. “The Prince Who was Promised”, I believe you are familiar with the tale. I will not mince words: King Bastard wants Aemon gone to fix the mistake of his gray eyes and dark hair. Queen Hysteria herself gave her approval, the wicked bitch, although perhaps she is too stupid to realize exactly what her husband intends. After Aemon is dead, King Bastard will marry the rest together. Dany, Visenya, Lysella and Aegon, in some sick parody of a matrimonial orgy while their kinsman bleeds out in the Blackwater Bay._

_I’m surprised he doesn’t wish to set aside your marriage to Robb so that you may join in, or perhaps marry him yourself! The gods know how obsessed he is with you and your mother’s memory, as if that justifies anything he’s done in the past twenty years!_

_When this happens, this means war. None of the kingdoms will tolerate this, you know this. We must circumvent civil war: Aemon must marry Shireen. Dany must marry Ser Jonnel. Lysella must marry either my brother Loras. Visenya must marry Trystane Martell. And Aegon must be kept well in hand before he can be married to King Bastard’s supporters._

_In the dread event that Aemon is killed, and Aegon set upon the throne, you cannot avoid your part in this war. The lords will not accept Aegon as king after such a farce from a fanatic king and his childslaying queen. Not when you are alive and well with an heir and two spares. Rhaenyra was in the wrong to act against Aegon, but in this case usurpation would be welcomed._

_Aemon and Dany told me the truths of your mother and brother’s deaths. And if the king is truly behind the assassination attempts on Aemon and tries to put his second Aegon as the next king, Dany will tell everyone the truth. The lords will look to you as their queen, damn the succession. I know for fact that all the Reach will support your claim to the throne if Aemon is killed, and that so will Dorne, and most of the Riverlands and Vale and Stormlands, and of course the North. I dare say even the remnants of the Iron Islands would declare for you on account of your known friendship to your uncle Viserys and his wife Asha Greyjoy. A king’s claim is only as powerful as the army behind it, and we are all sick of the king upon the throne._

_If this dread situation happens, marry your Alia to Lord Tyrion’s son Jason. Marry Beron to a Tyrell or a Redwyne. Marry Geralt to a Royce or a Darry, or perhaps wait for a daughter from Shireen._

_The question is whether or not war will come. And the answer is that it will, and we must prepare._

_Yours, the Rose of Highgarden_

Rhaenys lies down, head whirling. This cannot happen right as the Long Night stretches towards them! If Westeros fractures into civil war, they will not be a united front against the army of the dead and they will perish. Rhaenys will curse the continent in her dying breaths and ask Mother Rhoyne to avenge her, and all the Seven Kingdoms will be blighted to mist, rot and pale moss. Will her children be sent to Essos or Sothoryos as refugees? What lives will they have with their entire heritage dead?

Tears trickle down her cheeks. Rhaenys feels herself drift away from the present, too stressed and exhausted to process anything more than the muted gray of her chamber’s stone walls. She comes back to herself with Robb curled around her body, stroking her hair and back and quietly singing a ballad in the Old Tongue. _“Hwær cwom mearg? Hwær cwom mago? Hwær cwom maþþumgyfa? Til biþ se þe his treowe gehealdeþ, ne sceal næfre his torn to rycene beorn of his breostum acyþan, nemþe he ær þa bote cunne—eorl mid elne gefremman.”_

Rhaenys sighs, soothed by the words even if she cannot understand them as truly as Robb does. It sounds like water over stones, humming in her skin and hair and bones. She hopes her children will speak the Old Tongue as well as they do High Valyrian and Rhoynish. He brushes her hair back from her messy braids and asks, “Are you alright? You didn’t even change out of your dress.”

“Read that,” Rhaenys points at the letter. Robb does, with Rhaenys still pressed against his side, and she feels the tension rise in his body. He lets his head drop back and there’s despair in his face.

“How did we let this happen?” he whispers. “We knew that threats were coming five years ago, and still everything is falling apart.”

“Robb,” she says and hates herself for it. “If my lord father truly kills Aemon for the sake of Aegon, I cannot allow that. I am honor-bound to avenge my beloved brother, even if it means going against my other brother.” She closes her eyes. “I will denounce my lord father as a kinslayer and Aegon as a pretender, and I will sit myself on the throne, and all Westeros will die because we are distracted from the true war!” Robb holds her close and she’s crying again. “We can’t have civil war! We can’t! But if that bastard kills his own son, or if he lets some other assassin kill Aemon, I _must_ take the throne! It would be an insult to everything I’ve known not too!” Hate colors her voice. “I won’t let that fucking _replacement child_ sit on what should have been the real Aegon’s birthright! I will be the Rhaenyra and I will not hesitate!”

Robb shushes her, rocking her as if she’s a babe again. Her shoulders wrack with sobs. “What do I do, Robb? What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” he says. He kisses her forehead, and the tears on her cheeks. “I don’t know. We will find out together, won’t we?” Rhaenys sniffles and nods. She lets Robb dress her for bed, and after he blows out the candles, she clutches him to her chest and falls asleep listening to his heartbeat.

That night Rhaenys dreams of Alia playing beneath a great weirwood tree with a group of children, a flower crown in her hair. She awakens to Alia presenting her with a posy of daisies and primroses to make her mama smile, and Rhaenys cannot tell if this is a good omen or a cursed one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well wasn’t that a mess? Roose Bolton escaped and got found guilty in absentia, there’s a legitimate looming danger of civil war breaking out as the army of the dead comes closer to Westeros—Rhaenys is having a bad month. I know it’s a bad look for her to hate her innocent infant brother, but if she has to choose between Aemon and Aegon 2.0 she’s choosing Aemon every day out of the week. Now we’re seeing the external and internal threats to the Seven Kingdoms start to converge. 
> 
> By the right of the Iron Throne’s succession laws, Aegon is Aemon’s lawful heir. But, by the right of popular support, Rhaenys is the most beloved out of Rhaegar’s children still after five more years. She is also a woman grown with three children, with the support of both Dorne, the North and the Riverlands as well as the friendships of the Vale, Stormlands and Reach. She’s also a water witch with three full grown dragons, one of which she is bonded to. If Rhaenys decides to fight for the throne if Aemon is killed, she has a far better chance than Rhaenyra had going against her own Aegon. But many people will die in a civil war that means nothing to the legion of the undead.
> 
> Whether or not Lyanna actually wants Aemon dead, or like Margaery guesses, assumes that Rhaegar will just banish Aemon to Essos and put Aegon 2.0 on the throne, is unknown. Ah, the limitations of a single third-person POV, but perhaps we'll find out soon enough.
> 
> The Old Tongue poem that Robb sings is based on the Old English ballad “The Wanderer”. The (modern English) lyrics are “Where has the horse gone? Where the rider? Where the giver of treasure? Good is he who keeps his faith, and a warrior must never speak his grief of his breast too quickly, unless he already knows the remedy—a hero must act with courage.” Fans of The Lord of the Rings might recognize the first part as the Rohan song Aragorn sings in The Two Towers. I felt the ballad really reflects the fleetingness of worldly things and that you must console yourself with your own strength of self. And considering how Robb just sentences his bannerman to death and realized how messed up things were in the North under his own nose, this poem might bring him some peace.


	13. The Sorrows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought about the last chapter I posted and the reactions to it. I stand by what I wrote, but I realize that this story is not the story where that subject matter needs to be explored. So, I’ve changed the timeline of my original version of Ch 13 and reworked it so that it now fits the ending I’m writing. This chapter is extra long because it may be a while until I’m ready to update again, since now I have about four chapters to rewrite lol
> 
> There’s another time jump at the beginning of this chapter, of about nine months.

Rhaenys ties her long scarf tighter around her hair and face. It is nearly winter now, and she thought that she knew cold in the North. But now, as she stands facing the Wall looming seven hundred feet above her and the frigid morning wind from the Shivering Sea blows in icy flurries about them, she realizes that she has yet to acquaint herself with “cold”. Mooncatcher huffs a mass of steam by her side, intimidating the men of the Night’s Watch come to welcome them.

She, Robb, Benjen, Edwin and Arya with their designated direwolves and Rhaenys’s bonded dragon are at the Wall to answer the desperate summons of the Lord Commander. For the past year, the situation at the Wall was made a lesser priority over the major one: finding Roose Bolton. Alas, moons of searching came up for naught, as the vile bastard seems to have left Westeros entirely. All the better for Rhaenys, as now she can focus on better and brighter things.

Another priority was foiling Father’s plot to marry Daenerys, the twins and Aegon in one foul marriage. Shireen, with all the cunning her lady mother possessed, plotted with Margaery and Daenerys to prevent it. She publicly declared her undying love to Aemon on Maiden’s Day in front of all the court. Margaery then began singing “Alysanne”, a sweet and sad love song that all of the South adores. The court joined in, and Aemon got on his knees to beg for her favor. All the while Lady Cersei Baratheon, Lady Alysanne Lannister and Lady Olenna Tyrell With Houses Baratheon, Lannister, and Tyrell breathing down Father’s neck, he had to concede without losing major face. Once business is finished at the Wall, Rhaenys and Robb shall go to Kings Landing one last time to see her little brother wed.

Catelyn, Sansa, Branda and the Stark sweethearts remain at Winterfell to coordinate with the aggressive exodus of people from villages in the northern forests. Sansa and Domeric in particular are wed now, and with the Dreadfort razed to the ground they shall remain at Winterfell until their new home—the Whitefort, for the Whitestark line—can be built after the upcoming war.

Before they left, Rhaenys told Alia to be a good big sister to her brothers and to listen to Grammy Cat even when she doesn’t want to wash up for dinner. Alia is five namedays now, taller and more of a girl than a toddler; while Robb says she looks entirely like Rhaenys, she sees someone else in her sweet daughter’s face. Alia said, “Yes mama” and hugged her tight with all her little girl strength. Beron and Geralt are nearing their first year—Beron’s eyes are a darker violet, like Daenerys’s eyes, while Geralt’s eyes are a light blue-violet that reminds Rhaenys of the morning sky. They babbled and pressed messy kisses goodbye to Rhaenys, and her warm memories of her children sustain her in this hellish tundra.

Eddard Stark stands at the head of his welcome host, draped in black wool and leather. Rhaenys takes in his facial features, seeking out Robb in his birth father’s face. Eddard has the long Stark face and nose, brown hair and grey eyes soft and sad like the morning mist. Truth be told, Aemon resembles Eddard the most, a twist of irony in Father’s precious prince. Robb’s Tully face is cool and calm, but Rhaenys can see the melancholy in his shoulders when he greets Eddard as Lord Commander. Does he look for traces of himself in how Eddard stands, how Eddard speaks? Arya and Edwin look at their uncle with morbid curiosity that they thankfully don’t act upon. Benjen hugs Eddard with unabashed joy, and Robb folds his arms behind his back. Rhaenys quietly asks him, “Will you be alright?”

“I’m fine, my sweet.” Robb gives her a smile, sad as it is. Then he clears his throat and asks Eddard, “What is the situation with the wildlings, my lord?”

“Come with me to the top of the Wall, the sight explains more than words ever could.” Mooncatcher looks at the rickety cage and snorts, then flies directly to the top with Grey Wind, Nymeria and Summer still strapped to her back. The human delegation takes the rickety cage up the side of the Wall, Rhaenys shivering and embarrassed of it. Robb and Arya press against her side, offering some of their outrageously high body heat. Woe betide her children if they too are cursed with thinner Southron blood! She rests her hand on her stomach, where underneath all her furs and layers resides a little bump. She wonders if it too can feel the cold from within her belly.

Six moons after her boys’ births, Rhaenys found herself again with child. She is not exactly pleased with how quickly she is pregnant again—wasn’t nursing supposed to prevent this?!—but Sarella says that she should be fine in the birthing bed as long as she remembers to rest. Her new child shall be a companion to Branda’s new babe with her Ned, an infant girl named Cathryn for Catelyn. And indeed, Rhaenys is promised another daughter, isn’t she? With silver-gold hair and dark brown eyes, and skin as fresh as cream…

They reach the top, and Rhaenys can hear a dull roar from the lands beyond the Wall. Eddard leads them to the edge, explaining, “They have been gathering for the past four moons. Mostly women and children at first, so we were hesitant to waste manpower in chasing them away. But now…”

Rhaenys gasps. On the other side of the Wall is a sea of camps, crude huts and tent circles. And no less than ten thousand wildlings, a swarm of life beneath the cold white winds and the unrelenting ice of the Wall. Her dragon soars ahead, roaring, and she can hear them crying out in shock and awe beneath her. Robb turns to Eddard and asks, “And they haven’t been raiding the Wall?”

“No, they’ve just been here.” Eddard hands Robb a letter written on raw parchment. “Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall, asks to negotiate with the crows of the Night’s Watch and the so-called Wolf and Witch of Winterfall.”

“For what?”

“For passage beyond the Wall.”

Rhaenys imagines hellhounds ripping through those crowds of people, and the hideous beasts that nearly killed Uncle Oberyn, and the army of the dead somewhere in those Lands of Always Winter. “Well of course we’ll have to let them in,” she murmurs. At Eddard’s expression of shock, she shrugs. “We’ve seen firsthand the horrors coming back to life in this world. They will not stand a chance when the Long Night falls and the Night King wants ten thousand new recruits for his army.”

“It’s true,” Robb says and takes Rhaenys’s hand. “We ourselves nearly perished on account of Ramsay Snow and his hellhounds. Our sons would’ve perished in her womb were it not for Ser Brienne and the Hero of the Lonely Hills.” Eddard sighs faintly, his shoulders sagging just a touch in grief and joy. Robb sees this, and flinches, before drawing on his inner strength. “Take us to the rest of your men. We must convince them why we must let the wildlings in…it’s a long way down to the halls of Castle Black. We’ve got some time to talk about other things.”

Everyone is awkward on the ride down, but Robb and Rhaenys determinedly tell stories of Alia, Beron and Geralt. Of what they look like. Of how Alia is the Primrose of Winterfell, the sunflower of Rhaenys’s heart, filled with light and charm and sweetness. Of how Beron has the Stark shape to his face and Geralt the stoic Stark nature even as an infant. Eddard finally smiles when Robb grouses that lordlings already vie for Alia’s hand and he will take the head of the next arrogant bastard to send a letter asking for a betrothal before Alia even knows what being betrothed means. What must Eddard see in Robb being a father? Robb never mustered the courage to visit Eddard during their five years in Winterfell, keeping his contact only to letters. Maybe now with the end of the world coming ever closer, they can finally bridge the gap between them. Rhaenys hopes for that. She tells Eddard of her current state and there’s incredible joy and grief in those grey eyes.

The rest of the Night’s Watch is rather democratic under Eddard’s rule, and they have very strong opinions about letting in the wildlings. Half of them want to slaughter the wildlings camps as soon as they can arm themselves, and the other half want to keep the Wall’s gates closed and leaving them to rot and freeze. They even start fighting amongst themselves, until Grey Wind howls in unison with Mooncatcher. All the brothers to a man shut their mouths after that, and Rhaenys rubs Grey Wind’s ears. Robb crosses his arms. “An army of the undead led by Others and the Night King is on their way,” he says in a clear voice projecting to every corner of Castle Black’s hall, “and you want to gift them ten thousand new soldiers?”

“And where’s the proof of that?” A man by the name of Janos Slynt leers at Rhaenys and Arya before Nymeria bares her teeth at him and he looks away. Rhaenys raises her eyes upward. May the Mother and Crone give her strength to convince the fools.

“Did you not experience fights with wights? The Lord Commander wrote of witness statements from brothers such as Samwell Tarly and Satin Flowers about the undead.” Rhaenys crosses her arms. “My lord husband and I also know for fact that the Long Night is coming. We know it as I knew how to carve the Last River clear across from the Shivering Sea to the Bay of Ice.” She sees them all flinch and shuffle; oh, it’s so easy to forget that she’s the one who literally reshaped the North when they’re distracted by direwolves and dragons.

She looks at her companions, then says, “We must let the wildlings in. The Gift and New Gift are fallow land, but it’s not too late to build temporary settlements. When winter falls too heavy, we all must move south regardless. We need every man on the side of the living—the wildlings have faced the wights and Others before, if they’ve lived this long. Perhaps they can help train Westerosi soldiers on how to fight.”

“Oh, we should take counsel from the damn wildlings now?” A man jeers at her and the room grumbles.

Arya rolls her eyes and snaps, “Oh, get over yourselves!” Robb gives her a look in warning, but Arya is not to be cowed. “And when the Night King comes and gets an army of millions because you were too foolish to let people in before the slaughter, and the Wall is overrun by bodies alone, will you be so proud them? Do you even know how to kill wights and monsters, or do you just hack at them like idiots until you’re killed off?”

The men glare at her, but what can they say? Robb pats Arya’s shoulder and continues off her argument. “Symeon Star-Eyes faced hellhounds fighting at the blighted Nightfort. I, my lady wife, and my sister Arya along with Ser Brienne of Tarth have faced those hellhounds for ourselves. Monsters roam all the continent from Dorne to the Wall. And the undead are just as vile as they. The only proper tools to destroy them are fire, dragonglass, Valyrian steel, and silver. Tell me, does the Night Watch have enough of that to fight off an extra ten thousand wights? Is your heart strong enough to burn the undead in the shape of children you let die?”

The air is still and heavy with tension and fear. Eddard rises from his seat and declares, “I will not sit by idly and thousands of men, women and children be slaughtered. My lady,” he asks Rhaenys, “can you petition the king to come and bring assistance? If the wildlings are to come across the Wall, it must be by his decree.”

Rhaenys nods. “Luckily for you all, it takes me not but half a day to go to Kings Landing directly. My lord husband and I shall go and tell my lord father your king about the threat facing us all, and I will return with either His Grace or Prince Aemon acting in our lord father’s stead. Will that settle your sense of pride?”

The brothers reluctantly agree to follow the lead of their king. Mooncatcher snarls at them once more for good measure, and Rhaenys makes her farewells. “Don’t let anyone cross Arya lest they want to become acquaintance with her spear,” she tells Benjen.

Benjen gives her a wink. “She would hardly be my girl if she didn’t.”

With Grey Wind reluctantly settled in his saddle and Robb securely holding Rhaenys around the waist, they take off into the freezing sky. They stop at Winterfell to retrieve Alia, as Rhaenys wants Alia to meet the other highborn children that shall be at the wedding. She settles in Rhaenys’s lap, giggling and patting Mooncatcher’s scales as if a dragon were a favored pony.

The air becomes warmer as they flies south, and Rhaenys can see the villages grow larger and the forests become greener beneath Mooncatcher. Robb’s breath is shallow against her neck, as if he is too shocked to breathe deeply. Humans were not made for flight, after all, this is a marvel of magic. Alia is a good girl, not wriggling free of Rhaenys’s grasp to try and catch clouds to fashion a fairy cloak for herself. Her dragon glows in the sunlight a vivid shade of purple and indigo, as beautiful and mysterious as the necklace of black pearls around Rhaenys’s neck. Rhaenys hopes that Sunchaser and Dreamfyre will have riders of their own one day. The bond between her and Mooncatcher is a pure treasure: she can feel Mooncatcher’s heartbeat as if it were like her own, slow and steady in the back of her brain. She can feel her joy of flight, her smugness at the ravens they outrace, her gentle concern for her bonded rider’s health so soon after battle and childbed. Rhaenys rests her cheek against Mooncatcher’s midnight scales and hums the river song. Can dragons swim? Would she ever dare to consort with mermaids and kelpies? Mooncatcher releases a puff of violet fire above them, and she can feel her dragon informing her that her preferred river lies in the heavens. But perhaps if Rhaenys is inclined to feed her Mooncatcher’s bodyweight in salmon, she will at least say hello to those mermaids.

They land in the Dragonpit some hours before twilight, and Mooncatcher calls out in greeting to Nyserix, Rhaelaxes and Viserion. Daenerys is there with Margaery, entirely surprised to see another dragon in their gossip circle. “Here already for the wedding? It shan’t be for another three days, and we expected you then.”

“Some business with the Wall sent us south.” Rhaenys unwinds her scarf, now overly warm in the balmy warmth of Kings Landing. Her skin prickles in discomfort. Oh, has it truly been five years since she’s been in this dustbowl of shit and fish? Already she misses Winterfell, and the thought of her becoming a proper Northern lady despite being Dorne’s daughter makes her laugh. Alia is a touch shy to meet Daenerys and Margaery after some years but warms up to them. She even holds her hand out for Nyserix to smell, and squeals when Nyserix huffs steam into her face.

Rhaenys explains the situation with the Night’s Watch and adds, “I need my lord father to sign off on permission to not let all the wildlings die. By the gods, that’s what we’ve really come to isn’t it?”

Margaery looks entirely unimpressed. “Have they truly forgotten that the wildlings are people? With families and children and pain?”

“I suppose if they would stop carrying off women and livestock from the North, the brother would be less murderous.” Robb says and Rhaenys sighs; she dislikes these conundrums of morality when there is evil incarnate breathing down their necks. “I’m headed to the Red Keep now, will you escort us? Tell us all about what’s been happening here now that I’m closer than a raven away.”

Margaery calls for a litter so that they may go unbothered and unmolested through Kings Landing’s streets. Winterfell’s winter town-city is far cleaner and cheerier than Kings Landing, although admittedly there’s more color and sound down here where generations of smallfolk and petty lords have made their lives. Rhaenys says, “At least nothing’s burnt down yet. Even the stink of shit is lesser from my memories.” Alia looks back at Rhaenys from her perch by the litter’s window and warns her that Lady Gwyn shall wash her tongue out with soap if she says naughty words, and they all laugh at Rhaenys.

“You can thank the Red Mistress for that,” Daenerys mutters. “I dare say she’ll be at the king’s side when we meet him.”

She is right. Rhaenys curtseys to Father, Lyanna and Melisandre alike when she is introduced in the Great Hall. Father is grimmer, darker, less a Silver Prince and more an Iron King. His eyes glimmer to see her, and to her surprise he doesn’t look away. No, he stands up and says, “My darling, you’ve finally returned to us.” His voice trembles and it makes her heart ache. He comes to press kisses to her cheeks and forehead. It took Rhaenys leaving for nearly six years for her father to want her, but his poetry to her is so unsettling that she cannot find joy in it. Alia peers up at him from Robb’s side, and Father’s smile is melancholic enough to make the Seven weep. “And your little girl, she is the absolute vision of you.”

“Of course, my lord father. I wouldn’t dare miss my royal brother’s wedding.” Aemon is not present, perhaps he is with Shireen. She looks at Robb, and he gives her the go-ahead to explain the situation at the Wall. “I also come with grave news, Your Grace.”

She tells her tale once again, and Father and Melisandre speak about prophecy. How in a few moon’s time a red comet shall streak through the sky, heralding the Prince Who was Promised leading the charge for the Fight for Dawn. Well, whatever works for them as long as they do as Rhaenys asks. Daenerys and Margaery stiffen when Melisandre recommends a burning to aid the forces of the living. Rhaenys swallows; they really are burning people here. The man upon the Iron Throne is no King Scab, yet that was an obvious madness to be tackled. What madness resides in Father’s head? Alia squirms and Rhaenys shushes her with a hand through her loose hair. She shall protect Alia from any madness, she swears it.

Rhaegar gives permission for the Night’s Watch to let in the wildlings to the Gift and New Gift. He appoints Aemon as his emissary, and Rhaenys is ready to fly back immediately. She is already tired of Kings Landing and its hideous nature. But there is the wedding, and there is joy to be found in that.

“We must feast, break bread and salt for our visitor,” Lyanna says. She looks at Rhaenys with a dark expression Rhaenys has never seen before on her stepmother’s face. Is she angry with her for coming unannounced? “Your siblings have missed you in your absence, _Lady_ Rhaenys. And you must meet your little brother.”

Oh, _fuck_ her. Grey Wind growls every so quietly until Alia cuddles up next to him. Rhaenys does not wring her hands or skitter her gaze; she is the Lady Witch of Winterfell and she is beneath these petty power plays. So what if Lyanna stomps upon Mama’s grave with her new Aegon? Lyanna has had her episodes of pettiness before, like when Rhaenys first flowered and Lyanna took it upon herself to tell every lord and lady in the Red Keep how Rhaenys sniveled over a bit of moonblood. Rhaenys inhales, exhales, and keeps Alia, Beron and Geralt in her heart. She misses her siblings; she will find some enjoyment in this. She breaks bread and salt for the ancient law of guest right and takes comfort in Robb’s steady presence.

Dinner is an extended family affair. Rhaenys and Robb sit across from Lyanna and Father, much to her displeasure. To her left is Daenerys; Visenya; Melisandre; and Aemon next to Father. To her right is Robb; Lysella; Cersei; and Shireen next to Lyanna. Alia is on her lap, the safest place Rhaenys can imagine. Aemon is far thinner than the last time he visited just after Alia’s third nameday, with dark shadows under his eyes. He is careworn more than a man of one-and-twenty years ought to be, with all the weight of Westeros’s future on his shoulders. And the way he flinches whenever a servant comes by, he must know better than to trust whoever is under Father’s control. Lysella and Visenya are heartrendingly lovely now that they are women grown. Their silver-gold hair shines in the sunlight setting through the windows, their skin is porcelain and free of any blemish, and they carry themselves with the grace sorely lacking in their younger years. Yet, Rhaenys is horrified to see their faces. Lysella’s smiles are fractured, the look in her skittering eyes like a terrified rabbit hiding from the hunt. Visenya is all dreamy sweetness tempered with cruelty, the cruelty matched in Melisandre’s face. They both wear blood red and strange hexagon jewelry around their necks, and they bless their meal in the name of the Lord of Light rather than any god Rhaenys has encountered.

Shireen and Margaery shift as if adjusting their gowns, but Rhaenys can see their tense disdain. Cersei herself looks as if she’s swallowed a create of lemons whole, especially when Lyanna brings out her infant son. _Aegon._ Pale, fat, silver-gold hair and indigo eyes and the face of his father. A memory from her long-gone childhood, of Mama helping Rhaenys cradle her baby brother in her arms, of Aegon gurgling and patting Rhaenys’s cheek with his chubby little hands, brings tears to Rhaenys’s eyes. She fakes a sneeze to cover her moment of weakness and offers to hold her new half-brother. Lyanna looks as if Rhaenys will dash Aegon’s head on the wall, and she wants to scream at her stepmother. Rhaenys has children of her own! How could she ever think that Rhaenys could do something so vile? Does Lyanna not know her at all, for the fifteen years they lived together?

Lyanna dotes upon him, as cloying sweet as sugar syrup. From the twist of Aemon’s lips and the way Lysella wrings her hands, Rhaenys guesses that Lyanna is rubbing it in Rhaenys’s face that she is no longer Aemon’s heir. Alia is anxious, she can feel how her little girl is tense and only nibbles at her plate. Can she feel the tension in the room, all centered around this one babe? Cersei and Shireen both roll their eyes when Lyanna starts gushing to Father about how Aegon will be a strong boy, the best knight the realm has ever seen, the greatest ever to wield his name. Rhaenys pinches her leg beneath the table until she knows that a bruise shall bloom there the next day, and counts her breaths. She is the Lady Witch, Princess Targaryen, and she will not be upset by this. She won’t. Then Father muses that he will write a song about Aegon, his promised prince, and even Robb grits his teeth.

A traitorous thought of putting the little babe in a septry slithers around Rhaenys’s heart, but she kills it before it can take root. She may never be comfortable around this new Aegon, and she may despise Father and Lyanna for naming him her dead brother’s name, but she will never hate a babe. An innocent infant.

“Is he not the sweetest little boy you’ve ever seen?”

Beron and Geralt are far sweeter than Aegon but Rhaenys merely demurs, “No, Your Grace.”

Lyanna leans forward. There is that darkness in her eyes again, a little sneer to the curl of her lips. “Perhaps we should marry him to your daughter, what is her name? Elianna, something lovely? Now that you’ve done your duty to your husband and given him sons, she is free for marriage.”

Rhaenys narrows her eyes. She pours herself a cup of tea, the same pot everyone else drinks from and therefore most likely safe. “ _Alia_ is a little young for betrothals yet. I myself found a happy marriage outside of the Red Keep, so when I do think of marriages for my children, I may consider families outside our own.” She makes to drink it, but then her stomach turns at the stench of the tea. They’ve added Volantene chamomile, and Rhaenys cannot stand chamomile or ginger when she is pregnant. It makes soothing her morning illness far more difficult, but if she’s already vomiting she shan’t add flowers to it. She gives it to Robb instead who drinks it without comment or choking.

Alia adds in a little voice, “Boys are silly, Grandmother. I’d rather have a new doll, please.” Rhaenys kisses the back of her head, and notes who smiles at her innocent statement. Robb of course, and Aemon; Shireen; Lysella; Cersei; and Melisandre. Visenya’s expression is vacant, Father stares at Alia as if trying to manifest something in his mind, and Lyanna glowers. Alia shrinks against Rhaenys and she glares at Lyanna. How dare she try and intimidate a girl of five!

“How odd,” Lyanna says. “I thought that you would be finally pleased, knowing that your daughter would be a true princess.” The implication that Rhaenys is no true princess stinks in the air. Rhaenys resists the urge to roll her eyes. Mother give her strength, this is more tiresome than when she was dealing with Bolton! Lyanna’s voice sharpens to a knife’s point. “The gods know that we never made you happy when you were here.”

Rhaenys is taken aback by Lyanna’s words. “I—I found happiness here. With Aemon, and Visenya, and Lysella, and the archery lessons you oversaw. I swear you made me happy then, I don’t know why you think otherwise.” Rhaenys stares down at her hands, and feels a painful sense of hurt and sadness twist at her throat. She never knew her stepmother had those thoughts, and it hurts to realize it. Then she clenches her fists in anger. Here she is feeling sorry for a woman who has put her down constantly since she’s arrived. Nothing will make Lyanna happy, will it?

“Oh, such sweet words coming from the whore trying to steal my husband!”

Everyone goes still and quiet. Rhaenys’s mouth drops open. What?! Alia asks Rhaenys against her shoulder what’s that word mean, and Rhaenys says that Grandmother is making a mean jest. Father grabs Lyanna’s arm hard enough to jerk her from her seat. Shireen stands up and says to Aemon, “Tonight is such a lovely night, we should all take a walk in the gardens before the wedding takes them over.” She smiles, ever so charming. Cersei agrees that her consumption-addled lungs need a breath of fresh air, which is rather hard to find in a city such as Kings Landing. Shireen laughs, “Now Mother, don’t be so hard on—”

“I know about the letters. I know what you plan to do with him!” Lyanna wrenches her arm free from Father and points at Rhaenys. “Don’t deny it! You want to be queen, you always have! You won’t even wait for me to be cold in the ground, won’t you?!”

“I shall join you in the gardens in just a moment, Shireen. I’ve forgotten my shawl and there is a cool breeze.” Rhaenys stands and Robb rises with her. “Your Graces, my lords and ladies.” Melisandre smiles at Rhaenys, a terrible, cold smile that reflects in Visenya’s face. Rhaenys’s skin prickles and she feels Mooncatcher agitate in their bond. What madness has descended upon her family? Then she spins on her heel and stalks out of the room with Alia firmly in her arms. Lyanna shrieks after her that she is but a shallow imitation of Elia Martell before someone—Father judging from the voice—growls at her to hold her tongue.

Rhaenys in turn holds back her own tongue until she and Robb are in their guest chambers. She tells Alia to change into a walking dress and wash her face. Once Alia is busy in their bathing room, she whirls around and whisper-screams, “That bitch! What is—I cannot even comprehend the gall—how dare she!” Rhaenys grabs at her carefully braided hair. “Ohhhh, I’ll never step foot in this city again after this wedding. It’s vile and cursed and twists everything into a gross caricature! Swear to me that we shan’t let our children anywhere near here, not after this!” She rather enjoyed razing the Dreadfort to the ground so that the Whitefort could be built. Perhaps she could do the same to this entire blighted city!

“How could she even accuse you of something so heinous?” Robb drops onto the bed and lets Grey Wind crawl up along his side like an overgrown puppy. “Killing your stepmother to wed your own father…and all those disgusting poems he sent you…”

Rhaenys throws herself down next to Robb and curls up against him and Grey Wind. “It wasn’t always bad between us, it got so bad when we left. But I admit, she always was jealous of me. Always looking at me like as if I were my mother come back to shame her.” Rhaenys’s shoulders tremble. “Father is mad, and she is mad too. The sooner Aemon weds Shireen, the better. I dare say after the war with the dead, he will have the stability to put them…away. Far away.”

Robb raises an eyebrow. “How far away are we speaking?”

“Far Mossovy. I’d say Asshai, but their pet shadowbinder hails from there.” Rhaenys shivers. “She has foul intentions for me, I could see it in her eyes.” And in Visenya’s; what has she done to make her sister hate her so? She should’ve taken the twins north to Winterfell and shielded them, she should’ve done something more than simply leave.

Rhaenys forces herself to sit up. Alia clambers to their side, asking for ribbons in her hair. “Come, let’s actually have a walk in those gardens. They’re the highlight of the Red Keep, and if we linger in this bed I fear we’ll never leave it.” They find Rhaenys’s shawl and join Aemon, Shireen, Cersei, Daenerys and Margaery in the gardens. Alia flits about, examining every flower and comparing them to the glasshouse plants in Winterfell. The flowers still bloom even in winter, and Rhaenys lets her eyes close. She spent so many years walking in these gardens, she knows every path and every fountain.

Would her younger self recognize her, a witch and a grand lady and a mother? Or would she mistake her for the Mother?

“We’ve just harvested the last of our summer and autumn grain,” Margaery says as she walks arm and arm with Daenerys. “Now that the wildlings are at the Wall and the weather’s turned to winter, I suppose we’ll finally see this great war that the king has prophesied about.”

Shireen sighs. “I wish it weren’t true. An army of the dead, how do you fight against that?”

“Fire, Valyrian steel, dragonglass and silver.” Aemon smiles at his soon to be good mother. “I don’t suppose that House Lannister has any secret silver stores?”

Cersei sniffs. “Ah yes, the Silver Lions of Lannister shall lend their aid, who needs gold anyway.” Cersei turns to Rhaenys. “What incredible restraint you have, Lady Rhaenys. I fear that if my own mother had spoken to me in such a way, I would’ve clawed her eyes out.”

“My daughter has a stubborn streak far more vicious than the queen’s,” Rhaenys says. Then she smirks. “It will take more than outlandish accusations to shake my nerve after I’ve forced a toddler into a bath after she’s fancied herself a mud fairy. Shireen, take note: never let your children around mud, horses or hay unless you wish them to become centaurs.”

“Mama, I’m not a centaur! Or a mud fairy!” Alia crosses her arms. “You shouldn’t make tales about people!” Everyone titters, and under the moon and starlight with the fragrant flowers and the distant roar of the ocean, Rhaenys is at peace. Rhaenys apologizes to Alia, pressing kisses all over her cheeks, until Alia forgives her and says that maybe Mama can tell some tales. But only if they’re nice, of course.

They all speak of gentle gossip, like how Randa indeed eloped with Theomore Manderly and how Tyrion’s little Jason learned a swear word from his septa and how Daenerys already has her wedding dress for when she runs off with Ser Jonnel. “I won’t wait for Father to change his mind,” she says. “After the wedding, Marg and I shall fly to the Vale and wed our sweethearts.” Daenerys stops by a planter of autumn violets and sighs. “I’ll have to construct a place for my dragons there high up in the Eyrie. I do hope my children won’t mind the cold.”

Rhaenys pats her shoulder. “If my own can survive and thrive in the North, the Eyrie is a small matter.” She raises her eyebrows and teases, “Is that the only small matter about the Vale of Arryn?”

Daenerys sticks her tongue out. “There are no small matters in my engagement, I assure you. If only all women could be so lucky.” The women giggle and Robb and Aemon flush and shuffle at their sides. Alia is busy trying to climb into the planter. Daenerys smiles. “Besides, I’ll have Marg and the Royces there to comfort me when I inevitably stifle under being a proper lady. I do hope my dear Jon doesn’t mind when I kidnap him to Lys for a honeymoon.”

“Be sure to take Robar and I with you,” Margaery says. “I do despise sailing, you must make treaties with every mermaid you pass and they ought to be our new Masters of Coin from how tight-fisted they are.”

Rhaenys leans against Robb’s shoulder. “What say you? When all the wars are over, and peace is finally ours, let’s sail to all the Free Cities we missed.” She can return to the Rhoyne and introduce Alia to the headwaters, show her Mama and Mother.

Robb kisses her temple. “And Qarth, Yi Ti, Leng, Great Moraq, Eandan—Edwin can hold down the fort, it’ll be just a few moons on dragonback surely.” Rhaenys giggles and he kisses her again. “The moon is sinking, my ladies, my prince. We shall leave you all to your wedding preparations, good night.”

And the wedding is truly spectacular.

The Sept of Baelor is even more resplendent than Rhaenys’s own wedding day, and great pageants line the streets of Kings Landing parading for the joy of the smallfolk. A troupe of choral singers extol the Maiden, Mother and Father in the Sept, where everything is gold and crystal and light. Rhaenys, on account of her status as the groom’s sister and a great lady in herself, is the one chosen to give the heavy Targaryen maiden cloak to Aemon. She can see Robb, in the first row of seats to the right, mouth “I love you” at her and she beams at him.

In a great swell of harp music, lead by Father himself, Shireen enters the Sept on the arm of her father Stannis. Shireen is dressed in luminous gold silk and chiffon, her petticoats full and whispering against the ground with every step. Iridescent diamonds glitter all over her outer gown with charging stags and roaring lions stitched in delicate black thread. A delicate tiara of gold filigree and diamonds sets atop hair, which cascades down her back with more diamonds and gold twine woven into the strands. Shireen wears her mother’s heirloom pendant and earrings, and when they shine in the light shifting through the stained-glass windows Rhaenys spies Cersei smiling past her tears. To Rhaenys’s delight, there are tiny little rhinestones in alternating gold and jet applied to Shireen’s scar. It looks as if she’s weeping jewels in joy, judging from the smile on her face; no one shall ever dare accuse their future queen of being ugly.

Shireen smiles, serene and sweet and just a little shy; Stannis at her side has an expression so soft it brings tears to Rhaenys’s eyes. Will she live to one day see Alia walk down some distant aisle? If she does, she hopes Alia shall be just as pretty as Shireen.

Aemon holds his hands behind his back so that no one sees them shake. He wears black velvet slashed with red silk, and a dark grey cape embroidered with dragons and wolves. His hair is brushed back from his face and his beard neatly trimmed, and with the white gold circlet on his head he looks a true king. A true prince and her little brother, her little Ser Jon grown up too fast and too melancholic and too good for the cesspool of Kings Landing. Aemon clears his throat and Rhaenys whispers to him beneath the music, “Fear not, the vows come automatically even when you’re terrified. Trust me.” He gives her a half-smile and in the candlelight he looks like everything Rhaegar ought to have been.

The couple faces each other, and Rhaenys readies the cloak in her hands. It’s the wedding cloak Mama wore on her wedding day, that her stepmother and Grandmother Rhaella wore, that all Targaryen brides have worn since their House adopted the ways of the Seven. The one stripped from her own shoulders when she became a Stark. What cloak will Alia wear when she sheds her Stark colors?

Rhaenys pinches herself to keep her mind on track, but it’s so hard to not think back to her own wedding. Many of the faces present are the same, perhaps a little more careworn after six years and the threat of the end of the world. Rosario still whispers with her cousin Monterys Velaryon in the front row, this time joined by Alia, Rosario’s brother Luceryn and Jason. Tyrion, dear Tyrion, still looks at her with quiet eyes but this time around the sadness is equally tempered with acceptance; she nods at him and says a quick prayer for his son Jason to be the man Ser Jaime could have been in another life. And of course, Robb is still awestruck by Rhaenys, and she blushes when he sends her a wink. Insufferable man, flirting with his own wife at his good brother’s wedding.

Aemon and Shireen’s hands are bound. They pledge their troths before the eyes of the Seven, and the septon declares that they are husband and wife, lord and lady, and damned be those who try and tear them asunder. The couple kiss and the sept rises up with cheers and clapping as their Crown Prince Aemon now has his Princess Shireen; as the lingering hurts caused by Robert’s Rebellion so long ago are once again mended.

Outside the dragons circle overhead, roaring flames as if they know to show support for Aemon as the future Targaryen king. And considering Mooncatcher’s remarkable intelligence, Rhaenys doesn’t doubt that they have their own machinations. The dragons fly away to seek our prey in the Narrow Sea. They must know as well how jittery wedding guests are, prone to superstitions and prodding dragons with long sticks. Father rises, claps his hands together and declares, “To the feast!”

“The feast!”

The feast takes place in the throne room, which is filled with flowers from the Reach and incense from Dorne. There are ten proper courses with a medley of food with an emphasis on Northern cuisine, as Lyanna must have directed. A great pigeon pie just for Aemon and Shireen; loaves upon loaves of manchet bread white and brown; spiced venison on beds of jasmine rice alongside honeyed duck and geese freshly caught from the kingswood; sister’s stew chunky with crab meat and seasoned with saffron; all the berries from the royal glasshouses arranged in tarts and meringues; and endless ales and wines and whiskeys from around the Crownlands, North and Stormlands. As there are a great deal of guests, Lyanna has the bards and musicians begin playing during the banquet as opposed to after. As far as feast go, it is spectacular, and Rhaenys makes mental notes of which dishes she likes best so that she may serve them before Winterfell is evacuated. Sometime to cheer up her people as the Free Folk come south along with the dead.

Rhaenys and Robb sit at Aemon’s left after he insists; Shireen and her parents sit to his right. To Rhaenys’s right are the twins, picking at their food like birds, and Father and Lyanna have their own dais to sit upon. There are quite a few children at this wedding, with Alia on Rhaenys’s lap once more. Did Mama feed Rhaenys at her own lap on Dragonstone? The Red Keep? Did she dream of Rhaenys’s own wedding, and dread her growing up? Rhaenys stomps down on the melancholic thoughts before they dominate her weary mind. Robb gives her a concerned look and she says, “Don’t mind me, I was just thinking of Alia’s wedding one day.” Alia scrunches up her nose and says she doesn’t want to marry because that means changing her name and she likes her name. Rhaenys giggles and kisses her cheek. “Oh, that is a big problem isn’t it?”

Shireen peers from around Aemon and asks, “Do you think Targaryen is as good a name as Stark, Alia?” Rhaenys glances at Father and Lyanna, but they are busy wrapped up in each other and they haven’t heard. Good, they don’t need Lyanna’s paranoia and Father’s prophecies today.

Alia thinks for a moment, then nods. “That was Mama’s House before she married Papa. And it has dragons. Dragons are nice, like Mooncatcher.”

Rhaenys gives Shireen a smile. “Already thinking of joining houses?”

Shireen folds her hands in her lap. “Never too early to think about it, gods know we’ve been busy with other matters for years now.” She feeds Aemon a bit of duck when he grumbles about promising the hands of unborn babes. Her voice is whisper soft. “Hush, it’s good politics. Perhaps if we have a son first, Alia could be his queen. Or if a daughter first, then Beron or Geralt her prince.” She glances at Rhaenys’s belly. “Or this new child, for an even closer age difference.”

Her daughter, one of them, as queen, or one of her sons as king…Rhaenys despises Kings Landing but perhaps it can be rebuilt anew under a new king? All the ghosts set to peace, all the stink and filth scrubbed away, all of the loneliness of a little unwanted princess never to be found again…Rhaenys allows Alia to eat a berry tart. “Dany, Robb, what do you think?”

Daenerys leans forward to threaten that they were getting no children from her until she and Jonnel were good and ready, and if they didn’t like it they could take it up with Nyserix. They laugh while Daenerys huffs about baby fever and overbearing relatives. Robb taps his chin and says, “It wouldn’t be a hardship to see a son or daughter of mine marry into royalty. As long as their bride or bridegroom is worthy of their hands.” Robb asks, “Have you already considered names?”

Aemon smiles at Rhaenys. “Well, Rhaenys won’t let us name a daughter her name—”

“Absolutely not!” Rhaenys points a pronged fork at him. “No Rhaenys’s, I will haunt you for the rest of my days if you make me yet another Rhaenys on the list while I still draw breath!”

“—so instead, we would name a daughter Nessa.” Rhaenys blinks, and incredible aching softness squeezes her heart.

Shireen looks to her right, where Stannis and Cersei are murmuring to each other. Shireen’s smile softens, and she says, “We would name a son Tommis, for my father and brother.”

Rhaenys squeezes Alia close. All three of Shireen’s siblings met tragic fates—Joffrey choked on a pigeon pie on his sixth name day; Myrcella died of a bleeding fever when she and Shireen were hardly more than girls; and Tommen…Tommen died saving Shireen from Gerold Dayne. Were it not for him, Shireen would’ve been spirited away by a dastardly raper. Instead, Shireen was saved with only the scar on her face, and Dayne shoved Tommen out a window to his death.

Rhaenys says, “A strong name, and an honorable one.” Shireen smiles, her eyes bright. Rhaenys then asks, “Are you prepared for dancing?”

Aemon gulps and Shireen grins. “He doesn’t have a choice.”

Once the guests are fed, the tables are cleared and a dance floor made in the center of the hall. The wedded couples first dance to “Jenny’s Song”, sung hauntingly by Father and a host of musicians. Chills run down Rhaenys’s spine and arms; Alia must feel her shivering because she snuggles closer and tells Rhaenys that she needs a cloak. Her sweet child cannot know that the chill her mother feels is not a draft from outside, but the idea of dancing with the ghosts of her loves if they lose to the Night King. No, they cannot lose, they have no choice but to succeed.

They then dance to “Iron Lances” and all the guests rise and clap along and dance themselves. Robb pulls Rhaenys and Alia into a dance, and they spin in frightfully dizzy circles until they are breathless with laughter. Lysella grants a number of lords dances, as does Visenya when Melisandre pushes her forward. Rhaenys finally picks Aurane out of the crowd, here on Arianne’s behalf as she’s upset Father again and once again banished for all eternity. She dances with him and asks, “How is everything, my dear cousin?”

“Well enough, my lady. Dorne has built enough shelters to host all of the North as counted by your previous census, as well as a number of Riverlands and Vale people.” Rhaenys smiles; thank the gods for Arianne and Aurane opening Dorne, if things truly are lost then at least her people shall be safe south. “Also it seems that my Saria is convincing your Alia to climb into the pigeon pie shell, should we stop them?”

Rhaenys whirls around. “Alia! Stop that right now!” and some lords laugh to see their formidable Lady Witch be a normal mother. Rhaenys dances with her properly chastised daughter before she must send her to Rosario’s rooms, swinging her round and round until Robb join in and lifts them both high in the air. The guests flood the dance floor, songs of every genre and instrument echoing in the ceiling and walls of the hall. Songs Rhaenys knows, songs she doesn’t know, songs she tries to sing along with anyway now that the wine flows and the hands clap and—

Aemon coughs. It catches Rhaenys’s attention as she is closest to him, and she sets Alia down so she can see to her brother. “Aemon?” He sits heavily in his chair, coughing over and over. Shireen is coughing with him, into her handkerchief. She rests a hand on his back and feels how sweaty he is. “Aemon!”

He clutches at his chest and gargles. Then he collapses entirely. His wine cup falls and wine splatters like blood on Rhaenys’s dress, and comes to a clatter by his face and trembling face.

Rhaenys screams. The musicians falter to a stop and Rhaenys hears Alia cry out for her uncle. He’s choking, he’s sick, what would Rhaenys do if Alia were choking? Rhaenys hefts Aemon to his knees, with her hands clutched firmly against his lower stomach. She shoves them up harshly, over and over, until he vomits purple and green. What did he eat?! He sucks in a breath of air, then screams and clutches at his chest. She can hear fluid in them, bubbling and crackling as if he were sick with pneumonia or consumption. Has he always been ill?! He wasn’t ill not five minutes before and—

Aemon vomits blood and goes still. His heartbeat flutters like a hummingbird’s heart when she presses her fingers to his throat, and Rhaenys feels her own rise. No, no, this can’t be happening! Shireen hits the floor, her chest seizing and hands scrambling at her throat for air. Then Alia coughs, and Rhaenys spins around to see the same paleness in her daughter’s skin, the sweat at her brow, how she clutches at her chest and cries for Mama.

**_NO!_ **

“MY SON!” Lyanna shrieks, and shoves her way through the crowd. “You’ve killed him!”

“He still lives! Someone get a maester!” Rhaenys bangs on Alia’s back, encouraging to spit up whatever is lodged in her throat. “My daughter! The princess! Someone help us!”

But then there are hands dragging her away. The KIngsguard drags her away from Alia, from her little girl whose lips are turning purple and her lungs filling with bile. Rhaenys screams for Robb to save her, for these rat bastards to let her go, for someone to check Roasrio if she ate any of the pie.

Lyanna points a shaking finger at Rhaenys. “You’ve poisoned my son and good daughter, you heartless bitch! And now your daughter shall die for your crimes!”

Rhaenys opens her mouth to scream for Mooncatcher, then someone hits her on the back of the head.

She awakens in her old chambers, back when she lived in the Red Keep. Her belongings from Winterfell are here too, but little else from before six years prior. Father sits by her bedside, reading one of his dusty tomes. “Father?” She struggles to sit up, nauseous and exhausted. “Father, Aemon was poisoned! It was the pie, who cooked it, you must—where is Alia?!”

“All shall be well, my dear.” Father sets his book aside and takes her hands in his own. His skin is icy cold and she shudders. “Aemon, his wife, your daughter and the Dornish princess are under the care of maesters. They will do their best and prolong their life. But I fear there is no antidote or cure for them, and they shall perish within the moon.”

Rhaenys shakes her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. “No, you don’t know that!”

“But I do.” He smiles, so beatifically in the dying sunlight. “I admit, it was never our intention for your daughter and her cousin to be caught up in this. But the gods work in mysterious ways, and they’ve cleared a path for us.”

Rhaenys goes shock still when Father—when the kinslaying, self-serving, selfish bastard at her side—explains himself. Aemon and Shireen were poisoned by Rhaegar and Lyanna, by means of a poison procured in Essos by Melisandre with no cure known to Westeros. The better to pave the way for Aegon to become the true Prince Who was Promised, with his three brides and a comet hailing his ascension. Originally no one was to be blamed at first, until someone made themselves the best scapegoat, but then Rhaenys arrived and Lyanna was so upset by Rhaegar’s letters. So now Rhaenys is blamed for it, with Robb and Grey Wind already in the black cells for daring to try and intervene. “Your stepmother is a jealous woman,” Rhaegar runs his knuckles down Rhaenys’s cheeks to wipe away her tears. “But how couldn’t she be? You are your mother reborn pure, my sweet. Perfect in every way. And when the dust settles, I shall make you my queen, just as you always deserved to be.”

Robb will be executed, and Alia will die. After that, evidence shall come forward that Lyanna was the true and only culprit, and she shall be executed. Then Rhaegar shall wed Rhaenys, and their children shall ride Rhaenys’s dragons, and all shall be well.

All shall be well, he says. And that is true, but not for him.

Rhaegar kisses her goodbye on the lips and neck, and she lets it happen. The better for him to think that she’s cowed, she’s pliant, she’s not a threat. And when he leaves, she waits until the Kingsguard outside her door is complacent. They shall know their folly soon enough.

Fool that he is, Rhaegar’s forgotten that Rhaenys’s room is closest to the Blackwater Rush. Rhaenys opens her bag, where within lies the tome of Rhoynish water magic gifted to her by Oberyn years prior. So many pages are bookmarked. She’s read half of it, teaching herself; Arianne; Saria, Galena and Almeza at Winterfell the hand sigils and single word-songs within. The book advances in difficulty and risks to the witch, so she has yet to read it in its entirely. Rhaenys skips ahead past her last bookmark searching for a song that will achieve what she wants. There, at the end of the book, lies a song known as the Sorrows.

“With all the screaming of my people,

With all the blood in my veins:

I send a pestilence and plague

into your House, into your bed,

into your streams, into your streets,

into your drink, into your bread!

Upon your vassals, upon your keep,

upon your campaign gone awry,

into your dreams, into your sleep,

I’ll see you break, I’ll see you **_die!”_**

Rhaenys gasps for breath, shaking and cold all over. She dare not read the rest of the song, she dare not even dream it unless she is certain that she needs it. The pure and total destruction of her enemies, as guaranteed by the sacrifice of all the blood in her veins. Her rage, her sorrows, manifested into physical Sorrows. Already she feels that a great deal of blood has already evaporated from her veins like the cold mist choking Chroyane to a standstill.

But one verse is all that she needed.

The Blackwater ignites, and slams against the Red Keep. She feels the riverside of the castle coming apart as the water scours against the pale red rock, screaming and boiling and hissing and raging with a thousand layered voices. Break, the river demands, and die! People scream but if they are smart they’ll run. Rhaenys carefully gathers her belongings, and calls out to Mooncatcher to return; in their bond she feels Mooncatcher already close, roaring violet fire over Blackwater Bay.

The roof splinters, and Rhaenys shoves out through the door. Already there’s a casualty, as Ser Jonothor Darry lies crushed by rubble by the door. What a waste of a good sword arm, but she cannot pity him now. No, she runs to where the maesters keep their infirmary, willing the river to keep raging, keep bleeding the Red Keep dry until its daughters are safe outside.

Within she finds Daenerys, Margaery, Cersei, Aurane and Luceryn by the prone and shaking poison victims. The maesters have already fled with the servants; good, she doesn’t need them dead too. “Come,” Rhaenys tells her. “There is no time.” Rhaenys bundles Alia to her chest as if she were an infant again, and she screams into the Blackwater Rush about how she will have Rhaegar and Lyanna’s heads on spikes for this. Their bodies torn asunder by wolves and their blood an offering to the Rhoyne!

Aurane ties Rosario to his back with Luceryn in his arms, and Daenerys and Margaery carry Shireen. What to do about Aemon? Ser Arthur Dayne bursts into the room, Dawn raised and pointed at Rhaenys’s neck. “Surrender yourself!”

“Your king poisoned his own son, good daughter and granddaughter so that he could seat a second son on the throne and marry me.” Rhaenys’s voice vibrates, a thousand departed water witches speaking alongside her. She feels more of her blood leech away, and hopes that Ser Arthur will see reason before she is forced to kill him before she dies. “You are complacent in these crimes, ser! Rhaegar’s crimes, and Aerys’s!” Ser Arthur flinches and Rhaenys raises her chin. “Carry Prince Aemon out of this castle or die.”

The windows shatter from the warping walls, and Ser Arthur lowers his sword. Then someone else bounds into the room—Grey Wind! And atop him Robb, bloodied with a stolen sword at his hip. “Robb!”

“Listen to the lady, as her offer is far more merciful than mine,” Robb growls and his own voice seems to vibrate. Ser Arthur, facing magic far stronger and more ancient than the Kignsguard vows, relents.

And so they all head towards the gardens, where Mooncatcher shall land with Nyserix and carry them all to Winterfell. Servants scream and scramble around her, but Rhaenys cannot care for them. She must be the Rhaenyra, who never wept when Kings Landing itself was sacked. She will make Rhaegar rue the day he even named her Rhaenys. She is no queen killed at Hellholt, no queen that never was, no—she is something far more terrible.

In the fracturing gardens they find her Mooncatcher waiting, along with Nyserix and Rhaelaxes. Lysella is there, tear-stained and terrified and blood beneath her nails. “I gouged out Senya’s eye,” she whispers. “She told me what she helped Father and Mother do, and how we would be queens, and I gouged out her eye.”

“Come away with us,” Rhaenys pleads. “You don’t have to stay here any longer.” Lysella weeps and nods. They mount the dragons: Cersei, Margaery and Shireen with Lysella; Aurane, Luceryn, Rosario and Aemon with Daenerys; and Robb, Grey Wind and Alia with Rhaenys. They lift into the sky, and Rhaenys gasps at what’s befallen the Red Keep from the air. “What have I done?”

A quarter of the Red Keep has fallen into the Blackwater Rush. That which remains is covered in pale moss and vines, rot spreading up to crumble the spires and mist collecting in the blighted gardens. Her nightmare of the Sorrows finally come true.

Rhaenys squeezes her eyes shut and turns away. They will fly to Winterfell, and rally the banners in every kingdom that will follow her and Aemon. She will see justice done, and pray that it will be found before the enemy to the far North comes and kills them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that’s the alternative version I made before changing the plot: instead of Rhaenys being grievously attacked, it’s Aemon and Alia and in the original they both died. This time around though, Alia is definitely not dying (can’t do it, she’s too cute, I am emotionally attached to my fictional child) and Aemon also won’t be dying for now, that’s too similar to the actual Red Wedding…that’s of course not to say he won’t suffer any physical consequences after this. Poor Aemon and Shireen, never allowed to be happy on account of Rhaegar.
> 
> Did anyone catch the chamomile in the tea and what that meant? Volantis in this story is basically Rome, and Roman chamomile is known to cause miscarriages when consumed while pregnant. Good thing Rhaenys has a pregnancy sensitivity to chamomile, otherwise that baby would’ve died. I wonder who put the chamomile in the tea…
> 
> And we are at war! A war right before the war against the dead, Y A Y! Hopefully Rhaenys can figure out how to stop the hostilities before they tear themselves apart as in her nightmares, because the dead don’t wait for the living to sort their shit out I’m afraid.
> 
> The Song of Sorrows is adapted from “The Plagues” by Gavin Greenaway, Ralph Fiennes and Amick Bryam from The Prince of Egypt. I couldn’t think of a more worthy song that brings down the curse of the Mother Rhoyne upon the witch’s enemies, at the cost of their own life.


	14. The Ravens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! I got sick again, and then I had my online interview for graduate school (thanks to time zone differences I had it at 4 am), and then I got an impacted wisdom tooth removed—this has been a nightmare of a couple weeks lol

Mooncatcher lands hard and fast and Rhaenys is already on the ground before the winds come to a stop. “Sarella!” she screams. “Someone gets the maesters, now!” The Winter Knife roars in its banks and all of Winterfell comes to a standstill to see its Lady Witch shrieking with blood on her skirts. Rhaenys rubs circles into Alia’s back, begging her to take in just a few more sips of air, that’s it sweetling, everything shall be well—Catelyn comes out, the only other woman in the North who has an inkling of Rhaenys’s rage, and Rhaenys sobs, “I’ll have the bastard’s head for this, and show it to you on a pike!”

Alia and Rosario; Aemon; and Shireen given their own chambers on Sarella’s command. That way if one person worsens in condition, it won’t bring down the others. The children are kept together though, as they cry out for each other and neither Rhaenys nor Aurane can bear to see them parted. Grey Wolf whines and rests his massive head on Alia’s bed; the direwolves in the godswood howl and the dragons along with them. Rhaenys sees how pale and sweaty her little girl is, and cannot remember the last time Alia was so sick. Her dear Aliandra, always so strong...Rhaenys turns away and weeps first into her hands and then into Robb’s shoulder. Then she steels herself. Tears shall not win her daughter vengeance, nor her brother. Her babe, still alive despite the blood she gave to destroy the Red Keep, kicks a rapid tempo against her womb and she soothes its anger with her own. She promises to that babe that vengeance shall be hers, and peace her babe’s first nameday gift.

She drafts her proclamation to be sent to every major house in Westeros and to their overseas allies. Rhaenys is innocent, a victim of erstwhile King Rhaegar and Queen Lyanna’s viciousness and attempted kinslaying. They dared poison their own son on his wedding day and blamed Rhaenys for it—and she will not let them steal Aemon’s inheritance for their little brat. If that means war, then so shall it be, as the gods old and new shall look upon her in favor. The ravens fly and Rhaenys pens far less impressive and informal notes to Oberyn and to the Jolly Kraken: come to Winterfell immediately, she beseeches them. War and death have fallen upon her and she needs their strength.

She and Robb, Beron and Geralt in their arms, stand at the battlements above the courtyard before everyone in Winterfell: their servants, their household, lords already visiting, the delegation of Free Folk come south to negotiate their people’s standing. Grey Wolf growls at their left side, and Mooncatcher looms at their right. With the sun behind them casting shadows over their faces, they must seem terrifying, unreal—Rhaenys remembers this for later, to have the sun warming her back like a mother’s touch when she strikes down Rhaegar. Robb offers his arm and she takes it. Beron coos against Robb in his bundle of wool, and Geralt’s chubby cheek pillows against Rhaenys’s chest. If only their sister could stand with them.

“People of Winterfell,” Robb booms over the courtyard, “people of the North and the Lands of Always Winter! In our castle now lie a Prince and Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, a Princess of Dorne, and our own daughter: Aliandra Stark, the Primrose of Winterfell. They lie here, dying in inches! They have been poisoned on Prince Aemon’s own wedding day, at the hands of the madman on the throne and his childslayer wife!” Rhaenys hears a roar of outrage rippling from the crowd up the walls to shake the ravens from their roost and make Mooncatcher roar flames at the gathering clouds. Robb yells, “Rhaegar and Lyanna Targaryen plot to kill their own son Prince Aegon to install their infant Aegon on the throne and marry all three Targaryen princesses to him in a mockery of marriage! They then blamed my wife, the Lady Rhaenys Stark, of their treachery! They imprisoned my direwolf and I in the black cells so that we may be executed, and that Rhaegar may marry his own daughter!”

The roar of outrage grows into a near-riot. Rhaegar would dare murder yet another Lord Stark on false pretenses, and then marry his own daughter, their own Lady Stark! The thought of Rhaegar having the executioner take Robb’s head from his shoulders makes Rhaenys hiss, makes Mooncatcher snarl and Grey Wind howl and the sky itself seem ready to tear into a torrent of wrath. “I will not have it, my lords!” Rhaenys calls down to the crowd. “I will not sit here and suffer another Mad King, another slaughter of innocent lives, the death of yet another one of my brothers! I will not sit here and suffer the slander against my name and of the North!”

The crowd calls for war, and war they shall have. “Assemble your men, lords of the North!” Robb pulls out Frost and holds it high as the people below cheer. Beron and Geralt squeal along with the sound, as if they too are prepared to raise up for battle. “The North remembers, and it’s well past time that the Iron Throne feel winter’s bite!” And with that a dance begins, with Mooncatcher and Dreamfyre and Nyserix and Rhaelaxes shrieking into the sky. Rhaenyra herself couldn’t have wished for a more auspicious beginning to a civil war.

Later, Robb and Rhaenys sit around a map of the North and greater Westeros, calculating how long it will take for their bannermen to assemble. Beron and Geralt roll around on a thick pad of wool and fur by Rhaenys’s side, with Branda and Edwin playing with them and occasionally giving their advice. The North’s ship fleet is more of a merchant’s fleet than a true navy, but with the Manderlys and the Starks of Sea Dragon Point, Rhaegar shall have his battles cut out for him.

Thanks to Galena, Saria and Almeza, the rivers in the North are twinned: one flowing one way and the other opposite. A magical marvel unlike even the Mother Rhoyne in Essos, one that is coming to fruition in Dorne and the Reach as well. Rhaenys traces her finger along the river that flows from the Rills to Winterfell. “The Tallharts and Forresters need about a week for their first crop of men, same for Branda’s men at Sea Dragon Point. What shall we do with the Umbers and Karstarks?”

Robb splits their tokens in half. “Half shall come south with us, and the other half shall stay here and keep the peace with the Free Folk. I won’t have any opportunistic cunts on either side start grudge killing.”

Rhaenys toys with a violet dragon token. “Suppose I fly south with Dany and Sella first, and try and convince men to surrender before we need all these banners. Then the North can focus on our border, and the Riverlands to aid your uncle Edmure.” She pats her swollen stomach. “Our babe survived our flight from Kings Landing, and I don’t intend for long bloody battles on an open field against mere cavalrymen.”

Robb frowns, but slowly nods. “You plan for Fields of Fire?”

“I don’t want to torch the men that we’ll need for the war against the undead.” Rhaenys lowers her head into her hands. “A show of force, and a reminder that King Bastard is better off in the black cells himself. That should work with the loyal-by-writ lords, but the true loyalists like Connington and Darry and Tarly…” Rhaenys sighs. Robb kisses her cheek and she nuzzles against him. “Sansa and Mother Cat shall be our Starks at Winterfell. Benjen goes north with the peacekeepers, Edwin and Meera at the Neck and Branda and Ned at sea near the Riverlands, and you—where shall you go?”

“My place is at your side.” Rhaenys smiles at him and he kisses her again. “Let them all see that we are united no matter what.”

“Rhae, Robb,” Sansa knocks on the door. “One of the wild—I mean, one of the Free Folk wishes to speak with you.”

Free Folk? Rhaenys rubs at her tired eyes and follows Sansa into the antechamber. There stands Ygritte, the Other-slayer with her hands wringing in her tunic and a determined set to her jaw. Rhaenys asks what Ygritte needs, and Ygritte says, “Me grandmother was a woods witch, many of us lasses kissed by fire end up being so. I cannae say for sure what that bastard king fed the bairns and your brother and good sister in that pigeon pie, but I recognize a bit.” Her lips twist in distaste. “Jon Crow bead, we call it. If you’re lucky you’ll vomit out the lungs before they swell up with pus and bile.”

“And if they have swollen up?”

Ygritte shrugs. “There’s herbs to flush the lungs out and restore the humors to the blood. I’ve done it before, and if anything the young are more like to recover. If your ladyship permits, I can help your lady maester.”

Oh thank the gods! Rhaenys takes Ygritte’s hands and squeezes them. “If you can do that, I’ll be in your debt as long as they live.” Ygritte flushes and mumbles about not ever having a princess in her debt before and Rhaenys manages to smile. “Oh, it’s quite fashionable unfortunately. Just another thing us Southrons do.”

Rhaenys tells Sarella and Ygritte to get to work, and makes a proclamation in the Great Hall that thanks to Ygritte the prince and princesses may live to see another day. She doesn’t need to do this, it’s not like she’s announcing a marriage or a battle. But she sees the way the Northern lords give Ygritte nods of begrudging respect for helping one of their own, especially one as loved as little Alia. The Northern lords still resent the Free Folk settling in the Gift and New Gift, and there needs to be a bridge between them; perhaps Ygritte and her lucky kissed by fire hair can be the first step.

Rhaenys’s next steps face the South. Within the next three days, dozens of ravens converge at Winterfell. She, Robb, Benjen and Catelyn look over the ravens and see who declare for Rhaenys and who denounce her. To Rhaenys’s delight, all of the major Houses are on her side: Tully, Tyrell, Arryn, Baratheon, Martell, even Harlaw. And many of the vassal lords of the Seven Kingdoms rally under her banner as well.

Others don’t though, and some are quite powerful. Rhaegar has Darry, Goodbrook and Mooton in the Riverlands; Tarly, Florent and the Shield Island Houses in the Reach; Connington, Grandison and Fell in the Stormlands; nearly all the Houses of the Crownlands save for Velaryon; and Crakehall, Kayce and Farman in the Westerlands as many coastal lords who praise Rhaegar for having crushed the Iron Islands.

Rhaenys gives the enemy tokens on her map a sour glare. They are too spread out along Westeros to corral into a corner and force a surrender—this war shall last weeks! Months! Time they need to be spending preparing for another war! Rhaenys summons Daenerys, Lysella and Margaery to the war room. “Dany, Marg, I understand you’ve been courting Ser Jonnel Arryn and Ser Robar Royce?” They nod and Rhaenys motions at the Vale on the map. “It’s time to finalize that method of engagement. You must marry them as quick as you can to finalize our alliance the North the Vale and the Reach. I wouldn’t ask this of you if I didn’t have another choice.”

“It’s alright,” Daenerys murmurs. She and Margaery smile a little smile at each other. “We knew we would marry them before the war against the undead. It’s just a bit more urgent now.”

“Grandmother shall have to travel far to the Eyrie—unless you can fly her there, Dany?”

“Of course.” Daenerys looks at the enemy and ally tokens with a sharp eye. “Where will we focus our dragonfire, Rhae?”

“That depends on how fast Lord Stannis can get to Winterfell. Ideally with three dragons we can strike at three locations at once, unless we find another rider for the unbonded children.” She considers the map. Where are the immediate threats? The Riverlands of course, then the Reach, then the Westerlands, then the Stormlands. “Robb, suppose that the Northern forces and the Valemen face against the royalists here near the Trident along with nuncle Edmure’s men? Is that enough men or will I need to add Mooncatcher to battle?”

Robb measures the might of the Northern, Rivermen and Valemen tokens against the Riverlands royalists. “In open battle there is no match, but Lord Darry knows the lay of his land and will try and bleed us dry.” He steeples his fingers. “Mother,” he asks Catelyn, “what do you feel is most effective in a war against Rivermen?”

“A show of force,” Catelyn says. “The Riverlands have been at the heart of every war since men first arrived on this continent. If all three waves of men come with full speed and presence—but also make sure to remind the smallfolk and petty lords that the bastard king is the one to blame for this—that will peel men away from the royalist lords. And if you surround them on three sides at battle,” she then shrugs. “It would be a quick and bloody battle. But you cannot let them go south towards the Crownlands, their support there is too strong.”

Robb nods. “Rhae, you’ll best fly over the Riverlands on your way to the Reach. Tarly is known to be ruthless on the battlefield, and you’ll need your fire there.”

“Another Field of Fire,” Rhaenys murmurs. She can see her path south already, can see the ash trailing in her wake. First the Reach, then the coastal lords, then back to the Red Keep. “Marg, your brother Willas is married to Melessa Tarly. Can she convince her father to surrender?”

Margaery shakes her head. “Lord Tarly has a heart of stone and loyalty of steel. The best she will be able to do is try and convince her father’s men to surrender when you win.”

Rhaenys asks Daenerys, “Do you want to be the one to face against the Reach? You are very popular there, even more than I am, so maybe they’ll listen to you more.” Daenerys agrees, and Rhaenys adjusts the dragon tokens on the map. “I shall go to the Riverlands against their fine crop of Darry men. Dany to the Reach with Marg after their weddings, Sella to the Westerlands. Then we all converge on the Crownlands…”

They are interrupted with four more ravens. Rhaenys’s eyebrows reach her hairline when she sees a rainbow seven-pointed star on the shortest missive. She reads it aloud,

_“To the abomination known as Rhaenys Stark,_

_You are a godless woman, a vile witch and a usurper! Submit yourself to the justice and judgment of the Faith at the Sept of Baelor, or suffer eternal damnation in the seven hells!_

_The High Septon of the Faith”_

Rhaenys tosses the raven to the center of the map. “And he’s added a 100,000 gold dragon bounty on my head, as supplied by the Iron Throne.” She would spit if Catelyn weren’t here! “100,000 for me and a dragon head, 75,000 for Robb and a direwolf head, 50,000 for a Targaryen princess brought back alive! And with the full backing of the Faith!”

Benjen sneers, “Oh, and poisoning my granddaughter was fair game then? How pious this High Septon is!”

Catelyn crosses herself in seven points and pushes the raven to the floor. “Never mind that…that slander. The gods shall judge us fairly, you’ll see. And I dare say the sept at White Harbor won’t promote that line of thinking!” She shudders, then grabs a letter. It has no sigil, just a round red wax seal, and inside is a strange jumble of letters and symbols Rhaenys can make no sense of. But Catelyn does, her mouth drops open as she reads the mysterious note. “It’s from my sister,” she says in a rush of breath. “I—as young girls we invented a code just for ourselves, I can’t believe she remembered it.”

“What does it say?” Benjen asks.

“Officially, House Mooton fights for the Iron Throne. But in truth, they fight for us. Lysa’s daughter Eleanor shall come to the Neck, Ellie is engaged to Dickon Tarly and she will write to him to surrender when the time comes. Lysa’s son Petyr and William—that’s Lord Mooton, her husband—will join with the royalists but peel their forces away when they battle with us. We must send them the information about that battle once we know if, Lysa will stay with the Mooton men and she’s the only other person who can read this cipher.”

Rhaenys sighs, “The gods bless you and your sister, Mother Cat. Hopefully no one has to lose their lives for such an idiotic cause.” She picks up another missive, with the stamp of a book upon it. “I recognize this, this is Lord Reader’s personal sigil.” Rhaenys skims the letter. It is from Lord Harlaw indeed, Asha’s uncle who took control of the Iron Islands after Rhaegar obliterated House Greyjoy. A quiet man, never one to ever be involved with mainland conflicts, and who has put a firm end to reaving, thralls and salt-wives in the islands—as if they would dare again after what happened to Pyke. And yet, it seems he is no longer so against reaving. “He says that if I can convince Asha to return to the Iron Islands and give her dying mother comfort, he shall reave against the coastal lords and take them out of the war.” Rhaenys feels herself smile. Another threat neutralized. “Asha loves her mother, this is an easy thing to promise once the _Jolly Kraken_ returns to Westeros.” She lowers the letter. “What is the third one? Please let it be Lord Stannis saying he’s at White Harbor.”

It isn’t; it’s an unexpected pleasure. The Sealord of Braavos himself has written with an attached note by the Iron Bank. A shipment of bravos, sellswords and sellsails are on their way to White Harbor as of five days ago, as part of the Sealord and Rhaenys’s mutual friendship and support. No strings attached to the wellbeing of the Braavosi men, as they are prepared to fight for their allies, especially if said allies neutralize the growing threat to the far north. The note from the Iron Bank says that they’ve written off Rhaegar as a bad investment, and shall offer the new ruler—Aemon, after Rhaenys has won him a throne—lower interest costs on loans as long as they promise to pay off all the money Rhaegar has frittered away.

Robb’s eyes are wide, and a grin slowly spreads across his mouth. “We’re going to win this war,” he says. “We’re going to win, and Westeros shall have a new king to actually leads us against the Long Night.” It’s foolish to celebrate so early, but Rhaenys is tired from her flight back to Winterfell and the stress of her loved ones lying in their sick rooms coughing up pus and bile and all of these ravens. So she hosts a little feast, just her family and their guests, and they dance and sing for a while as snow drifts quietly atop Winterfell’s spires.

Stannis finally comes with a fleet of his own, with Lady Olenna herself and the Tyrell household who lived at the Red Keep. Once he touches down he immediately demands where his wife and daughter are. Rhaenys expects this, and doesn’t bother with pleasantries. Instead she lingers behind while Stannis and Cersei embrace. It’s unsettling in a way to see Stannis so tenderly cradle his wife, whose eyes are red with weeping and rage and exhaustion. They adore Shireen, and each other, Rhaenys can finally see this. And the way Stannis rests his hand on Shireen’s scarred cheek and the way Shireen rasps “Papa”—Rhaenys excuses herself to see to Alia and Rosario. Arianne is amassing her Dornish forces, how terrible it must be for her to be so faraway from her only daughter. Ygritte is with them, rubbing a sharp smelling paste on their chests and singing a ditty that makes Rosario giggle despite her coughs. “O’ come doon the stairs, Pretty Peggy, my dear; come doon the stairs, Pretty Peggo-o. Come doon the stairs, comb back your yellow hair, and bid a last farewell to your mammy-o.”

Rhaenys tilts her head. Ygritte is of an age of her own; were the Wall never erected perhaps she would be living south in one of these castles that she is bemused by. “You are quite the natural with them,” Rhaenys says and kisses Alia’s forehead. She is still clammy, still feverish, but she looks far less deathly. “Have you stolen yourself a husband yet?” Rhaenys blinks. “You’re allowed to do that, right? ‘Tis only fair for both sexes to steal one another.”

Ygritte laughs, a great big belly laugh. “Aye, ‘tis only fair. I’ve had thoughts of taking one of the pretty kneelers for me own, raise a band of fire-haired brats.” Ygritte finishes rubbing the cream. “ ‘Course, that’s for after the coming war. I willnae dare face an Other with a bairn in my belly.”

Rhaenys looks down at her own stomach in irritated fear. She already lost Rickon in peace time, and that strange deluge of blood when she first carved rivers into the North…what if she loses this babe now, this unexpected surprise? “I don’t recommend it.”

Ygritte waves Rhaenys’s worry away. “You’re a dragon queen, you’ll be fine. Just leave some Others for us mere mortals.” Ygritte takes her leave to tend to Aemon, and Rhaenys kisses Rosario’s forehead too before leaving to let the children rest and talk with Stannis. From the hallway she hears Ygritte grouse, “There ye go again fussing with your bandages, I didn’t know Southrons were like teething babes,” she smiles to herself. Even with the weight of two wars upon them and the serious threat of her loved ones dying of treachery, at least Aemon is as stubborn as he always was as a child.

Stannis is granite hard when he speaks with her, but Rhaenys knows the sentiment. Did she not curse the Red Keep with her Sorrows on account of her daughter? Stannis’s daughter also lies clinging to breath, but that is his only living child—she cannot imagine what wrath he must have in store for Rhaegar. A very useful wrath, and deep-seated. Olenna, with her wizened mouth in a sneer and the Reach in her command, moves about the tokens to her own liking in the war room. “Never mind your worries about the sea, girl. The Redwyne Fleet shall meet up with your Braavosi sellsails and scour the Royal Fleet. I have it on good authority that the Velaryons shan’t suffer any losses for that fool on the throne.” She taps the seahorse sigil of Driftmark and smirks. “Shame that my Margaery shall marry into the Vale, Lord Monford is exactly what I want in a good grandson. His dowry is fatter than my own was! Will you snatch him up for your sister Princess Lysella?”

Rhaenys considers it. In her web of alliances across Westeros, there is not a nobler or richer house than House Velaryon to find for her sister. Lord Monford is a kind man of irreproachable behavior and is long widowed after his wife Lady Clarissa Celtigar died giving birth to little Laena. More so, he is still a young enough man for Rhaenys let alone Lysella. And wouldn’t it be sweet, to tie the Velaryons to both Dorne and the Iron Throne? “You have quite the eye for matchmaking,” Rhaenys tells Olenna. “Where were you when I tore up half the books about the Reach to advise on Willas’s marriage? And how is he, I heard Lady Melessa was with child?”

By the end of the night, things are settled. The Redwyne and Braavosi fleet shall skirmish with the Royal Fleet in Blackwater Bay, to allow the Velaryon ships to peel away for Rhaenys’s side and to take the naval powers away from the Stormlands and the Sunset Sea. The ironborn reavers under Lord Harlaw will attack the coastal lords to cut off Rhaegar’s truest support base, and weaken the Reach and Westerlands offensive. Stannis and his men shall sweep through the Stormlands in an echo of Robert’s Rebellion, meeting with allied Dornish spears before heading north to the Crownlands. Woe betide the Connington men, as Stannis has waited years to express just how much he cannot stand him.

Rhaenys summons her witching apprentices to Winterfell. Galena is married to a rich merchant at Sea Dragon Point; Saria to a knight from a House Forrester branch; and Almeza to Jory Cassel. Between the three they have four children, all with the promise of more water witching, and they are far braver than their sweetness may suggest. “My cousin the Princess Arianne shall bring her Orphans and other water witches with her when she wages war in the Stormlands. You aren’t required to, but I would appreciate it if you could go south and prepare the rivers there on the other war front.”

Almeza smiles. “Are we flushing out the royalists?”

“Exactly,” and Rhaenys’s apprentices giggle with equal parts amusement and malice. For every time the Faith and the Iron Throne and the petty lords of Westeros have denounced Rhaenys as a sinful whore, they have by association impugned their own honor. And Dornishwomen are known not to take slights slightly, just ask the first Rhaenys at Hellholt! Galena shall go to the Westerlands; Saria the Reach; and Almeza the Stormlands. Rhaenys shall do her witching on the Trident itself in the Riverlands, and she shivers with anticipation. Through Mooncatcher she shall bring fire and blood; through the rivers that the royalists thought safe she shall bring sorrow. O’ Joy of the Rhoyne, indeed.

Rhaenys, Daenerys and Lysella will simultaneously meet the royalists on the field on dragonback and petition for their surrender. If not…well, then they don’t. “Am I a fool?” she asks Olenna later when Margaery is assembling her wedding dress and hope chest. “I fear so much to be seen as a monster, as a new Rhaenyra, but the other option is to do nothing and that’s unacceptable.”

Olenna snorts and pats Rhaenys’s hand. “You have the same heart as Daenerys, always fretting about the opinion of the lords of Westeros. Those same lords have tied themselves to Rhaegar, to his mad father, to every shit king that came before you and will come after.” She leans in. “The lords are sheep. Are you a sheep? No, you’re a witch, and you’re a dragon. Act like it.”

Be a witch; be a dragon; be everything Rhaegar never was and Mama never got to be. Rhaenys keeps this in her heart as they prepare for war. Daenerys and Margaery will go to the Vale with Lady Olenna for their marriages and fighting against the eastern Riverlands royalists. Rhaenys is distraught that she will not see her aunt wed, but Daenerys assures her that it will hardly be much of a wedding. “We can have a proper ceremony after the fighting is all finished,” she tells her. “Perhaps a spring feast with all the flowers in the Reach blooming alongside your vaunted heather.”

Stannis sails south with Aurane, who is loath to part with Rosario but is the commander of the Dornish fleet. Rhaenys promises him that Rosario will want for nothing; Catelyn is fond of the little princess, and spoils both her and Alia rotten along with Sarella and Ygritte’s indulgent care. She reminders herself this, when Mooncatcher is ready to take her, Robb and Grey Wind south to lead their armies to the Neck and beyond. Sansa has embroidered electrum thread throughout her grey war kirtle—a rare alloy of gold and silver melded together found only in the northern mountains. A priceless touch of Northern pride and value, on a kirtle covered in raging suns and three headed dragons and snarling direwolves. “Do you think Mama is pretty?” she asks Alia.

Alia still cannot speak, but she smiles and nods. Rhaenys cradles her close, and calls for her boys to be brought in. Robb himself, dressed in shimmering Valyrian steel armor, carries their babes to rest atop Alia’s lap. They are so big now! Crawling with their heads raised, babbling to whoever listens—Beron gives her a great big smile with his four little milk-teeth, and he babbles, “Mama!” Rhaenys sniffles. He knows his mother, they all do. She kisses his downy head. His brown hair curls in messy ringlets to his shoulders; Geralt’s hair is pure silver, in gentle waves much like Robb’s own hair. Brown and hair and silver hair, and Alia’s deep red hair. What hair will her unborn babe have? Will she live long to brush it back from their foreheads so she can kiss them?

Beron and Geralt both babble for their mama and baba, and for their Alla who pinches their cheeks. Robb kneels down so that he and Alia are eye to eye. “Do you promise to take care of your brothers, Alia?” She nods, as grave as a septa, even with Geralt doing his best to eat her shoulder. Robb kisses her forehead. “I love you, my little darling. We will come back to you soon.”

Rhaenys sniffles again, and curses her weepy eyes. If she is to die against Rhaegar’s forces, she won’t let Alia’s last memory of her be her tears. She smiles wide enough to ache, and presses kisses all over Alia’s face until her little girl has to stifle giggles. “I love you too. I shall find you a treasure and bring it home, just for you.” As if there is any greater treasure than the love in her children’s eyes.

They bid their final goodbyes, to the children and to Aemon and Shireen. Aemon clings to Rhaenys hand and wheezes, “Do not die. I’ll never forgive you.” Rhaenys promises, just as she’s promised to her children to return. Who is she to deny them all?

Outside Winterfell’s gates, the initial Northern bannermen are ready to head south. Mooncatcher sweeps above them, and below her men cheer on their Young Wolf and Lady Witch. They will lead them south, and if the gods are willing they will lead all of them back north again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to cut the chapter here because it started dragging and my will to finish it depleted faster than an iPhone’s battery life. My labor of love is rather heavy on the labor now that we're in the final stretch of the story
> 
> But I WILL finish this story, I swear it! And next chapter we see some combat!
> 
> The song Ygritte sings in the children’s room is “The Bonny Lass o’ Fyvie”, a Scottish folk song about a thwarted romance between a soldier and his girl. In this context it’s about a Thenn and his betrothed being separated by war with the Night’s Watch.


	15. The Ford

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the public schools in my city (I’m an English teacher near Kyoto, Japan) got closed down because of COVID-19, and stores are running out of toilet paper and water and soup. So, while this apocalypse runs it course, I have more free time to write this fanfic alongside making a plan for what to do if I die of pneumonia lol

“I’ll admit,” Edmure says as they survey the enemy forces gathering on the other side of the Trident, “that the idea of fighting alongside a dragon, a direwolf and a witch is never something brought up in my war strategy lessons.”

Rhaenys smiles at him. “Would you believe it if I too never learned how?”

Robb pats her hand tucked into his arm. “Fear not, my lady wife—Mooncatcher and Grey Wind will be doing all the hard work for us while we just do our best not to be shot by arrows.”

The forces of the North, the Vale and the rebel Riverlands begin preparing behind where they stand. It is near the hour of the wolf, chosen specifically to lure the royalists into a false sense of confidence. Who would be so foolish to fight at night when the cold chills the blood and shadows dance across lands unknown to the rebels? The fact that the royalists agreed at all to their parlay tells Rhaenys how they intend to crush the supposedly foolish Young Wolf and Lady Witch. She can feel Mooncatcher’s smug amusement in their bond, as it matches her own.

Light and heavy cavalrymen assume their positions; archers atop constructed towers knock their arrows and check their vats of tar and matches; swords glint in the midnight moonlight and battle septons bless their faithful. Rhaenys spots men with axes and dull iron swords—smallfolk who cannot afford steel weapons—and gives them a smile and a nod. Some are quite young and are bashful, while others return her salute. She will not shed their blood so willingly.

Rhaenys, Robb and Edmure walk forward with Lord Arryn and Lord Royce to the little torch-illuminated tent assembled near the middle of the future battlefield. In the tent are Lords Darry, Goodbrook and Mooton. Lord Mooton does not meet eye contact with Rhaenys or Robb, and his sneer at Edmure is rather convincing. “Brother,” he hisses.”

“Brother,” Edmure sighs. He turns to Lord Darry. “Is there still not a chance for peace? I would not see good Rivermen lives wasted today.”

“Aye, but she would.” Lord Darry glares at Rhaenys. “Bad enough she’s got the whole North wrapped around her cunt, but now she seeks to usurp the throne!”

Rhaenys raises her eyebrows. “The erstwhile king poisoned his own soon and good daughter and put the blame on me for his own kinslaying. You would give your life for a man who doesn’t recognize the meaning of that life?”

He makes quite the obscene gesture. Robb crosses his arms. “For that alone I’ll take your hand, Lord Darry. Your hand, your men, and your memory.”

Rhaenys asks one more time for his surrender, and he refuses. “I believe we’re done,” Rhaenys sweeps her skirts as she heads out of the tent. “In an hour’s time, you can gladly give your life to your king since you crave death so dearly.”

The Trident is as calm as it ever was, catching all the cold moonlight. Even when the trumpets and horns of war sound and men rally to charge upon the Blue Ford once again, the river is still. Rhaenys ensures that it is still. She mounts Mooncatcher and takes to the skies, her dragon roaring plumes of violet and blue that seem to meld with the night sky until one cannot see where flame and fantasy begin. She can smell the fear from the royalists beneath her it seems, their fear and their anger and their senseless determination. They charge and her men charge and Robb atop Grey Wind leads the pack, just as they’ve planned. Rhaenys sweeps low so that she is only a dozen meters above Robb, close enough to see the sweat glinting on his brow. And when the enemies cross the ford, when the fools forget the loyalty of their river and seal their fates, Rhaenys sings.

She sings a love song. She sings her love for Robb, for Alia, for her children and brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews and cousins and aunts and uncles and good mother and father. And it is a sad song, as sad as her determination to kill men fighting for who they believe in.

_“Your soul is as a moonlit landscape fair,_

_peopled with masks delicate and dim,_

_that play on lutes and dance and have an air_

_of being sad in their fantastic trim.”_

The Trident silently swells beneath her lips, pulling down both north and south towards the Blue Ford. In the distance, she spies the Mooton men halting in their advance and leaving the royalists to their doom. Rhaenys’s babe kicks in her womb and she rubs a soothing hand over it.

_“All the while they celebrate in minor strain,_

_Triumphant love, effective enterprise,_

_They have an air of knowing all is vain—_

_And through the quiet moonlight their songs rise.”_

Grew Wind howls and Mooncatcher roars, perfectly in time to cover the sound of the Trident rushing towards the royalists. The babe quietens in her stomach, as if lulled to sleep.

_“The melancholy moonlight sweet and lone,_

_That makes to dream the birds upon the tree,_

_And in their polished basins of white stone,_

_The fountains weep and sob with ecstasy.”_

Rhaenys claps. And at once, the opposite sides of the Trident smash against each other and collapse upon the royalists. Men scream as they are swept to the ground, crushed by walls of weeping waters. Woe betide the armored knights in heavy plate, as they cannot swim. And woe betide still the lightly dressed warriors, as they have only a moment to catch their breath before the torrent parts for the rebels.

The rebels fall upon the royalists and it’s a slaughter. Mooncatcher torches the royalist archer towers and the fields around them, encasing the men in a circle of fire. She hears the men scream as they die. In the shadows of the moon, they scream and rage and die. Mooncatcher screams to match them, cowing them, breaking their spirits as the Trident surges once more to dash apart the men trying to rout around the rebels. Both fire and water have abandoned the royalists; the earth is soaked through with blood and indifferent to their cries, and the air is choked with the sound of their dying. They die, and Rhaenys lives, and she holds her hands against her mouth to hold in vomit.

Her men are instructed to take prisoners if they surrender, and after the first volleys of warriors and dragonfire and witching waters, the royalists fall apart. In Robert’s Rebellion, the war that gave the Blue Ford its name when Robert Baratheon was killed by Rhaegar and his blue eyes rolled out of his skull, lasted half a day.

Her own Dragon Ford lasts for not even an hour.

Rhaenys touches down and meets with Robb, Edmure, Lord Arryn, Lord Royce and Lord Mooton. None are seriously injured, just a few scratches and dents in their armor. Rhaenys throws her arms around Robb and kisses him, caring not about the men wolf-whistling in the background. He kneels down to kiss her belly, where their babe still resides safe and sound, and Rhaenys prays her thanks to all the gods in the rivers and trees and septs.

Then she must deal with the surviving royalists. Lord Darry, before so proud, kneels diminished in the bloodied mud. His right hand is gone, and there is blood on Grey Wind’s muzzle; she doesn’t laugh, as that would be cruel, but her lips twitch into a half-smile. His son Lyman, a green boy of hardly five-and-ten, kneels alongside him and is terrified. Rhaenys is entirely untouched by battle, yet she has the blood of hundreds on her hands, can he see the way her palms drip with their lives?

“I am not a cruel woman,” she tells the Darrys and the other captured men. “I take no pleasure in seeing you defeated, and I wish for peace to remain between us. For the smallfolk and vassal knights who survived, return to your homes and hold your families close. Tend to your crops. Never raise your weapons again in the name of the erstwhile king, Rhaegar the Betrayer.” The men nod, their lips trembling white and blue in the growing dawn.

She turns to the major lords. “You were loyal to the king you pledged to, and that is no crime. But your king is an illegitimate ruler who sought to kill his son, the new and rightful king. And you rose against Lord Edmure Tully, Lord Paramount of the Trident. You committed treason, and I hand over your fates to Lord Tully.”

Edmure is a merciful man. Where Robb may have taken the heads of the royalists lords had they turned traitor against the North, Edmure sends them all to the Wall and lets their heirs inherit their titles. Little Lyman Darry is quick to swear fealty when his father’s life is spared, and Lord Darry goes without much fuss. He still gives her a glare full of bile and blood as he is chained and led away, but Rhaenys merely stares at him until he is the one to look away.

She offered peace and he spat in her face. She cannot afford to give any of her attention to bemoaning his fate.

Dawn properly rises over the rebels returning victorious to Riverrun. Rhaenys properly meets the Mootons for the first time, and thanks them for their help. Lysa is quite the pretty woman, like Catelyn, with the same rich auburn hair and light blue eyes. William has black hair and green eyes; Petyr is dark haired and light eyed, a nice mix between the two; and Eleanor is gone north, but from what Rhaenys recalls of Catelyn’s tales Eleanor takes much after William as well save for her hair. “Were it not for your cleverness, many more men would have died today. You have my lasting gratitude.”

William bows, and Lysa flushes a dark red the same color as her hair. “My husband is a good man, he’s always treated me kindly and with respect and love. I didn’t want to see his life be wasted on someone like…well, like the king.” She fondly ruffles Petyr’s dark hair, who sighs as if this is a common occurrence he must suffer through for the sake of his mother but he still gives her a fond smile. “Petyr bloodied his sword today, now he can court young Lady Bethany Blackwood as he’s a man now—”

“Mother!” Petyr hisses and Lysa giggles. Rhaenys hides her own smile; if she survives her trials, one day she will be an embarrassing mother to her sons. The thought gives her strength.

Rhaenys and Robb decide to wait for the rest of the Northern men at Riverrun, as enough time as passed for the lords left behind to rally their vassals. Rhaenys observes Riverrun’s own war map room and considers her next move. “Dany and Marg are in the Vale, and Sella is in the Westerlands with Lord Tyrion. Dany is the one to lead the attack on the Reach royalists, so perhaps I should head to the Stormlands and start burning keeps.” She twists her lips. “It’s a fun pastime of the Targaryens, or so I was told.”

Robb opens his arms and Rhaenys snuggles up next to him in the giant living chair. “I must stay with my men, but I don’t want you to head out on your own. Maybe Lords Arryn and Royce can remain here with Edmure, and take our Northern troops south to the Stormlands to meet with Lord Stannis. Edwin and Meera have their own men at the Neck so it’s not like the North is undefended, and then there’s Brand and Ned at sea.”

Rhaenys nods. “To the Stormlands then, I’ll draft a raven to Lord Stannis.” She yawns and Robb tucks her in so that her cheek rests on his shoulder. “Do you think nuncle Edmure has quail this time of year? The babe demands quail, and sugared asparagus.”

“Sugared asparagus?”

“It could be worse, remember when I tried to eat bark when I was carrying Alia?”

“How could I forget when I had to drag you away from consuming the entirety of the Saltdale glasshouses? Lord Tallhart didn’t know whether to call for a maester or for a lumberman to chop you down an orange tree.” Rhaenys laughs, and it feels so good to laugh.

The messenger finds them hours later, lounging in their guest rooms with Rhaenys’s feet in his lap and a half-finished plate of meats and cheeses between them. “My lord, my lady,” the messenger bows, “the rest of your army has arrived, as well as a man who says he is the Lady Stark’s uncle.”

Rhaenys sits up straight. Her uncle?! It can’t be Doran, her uncle hasn’t left the Water Gardens in years after needing his lower legs amputated. Robb helps her up and she rushes down to the reception hall of Riverrun. She skitters to a stop, and her eyes well with tears. “Nuncle Oberyn!”

Oberyn sweeps her into his arms and spins her around, then carefully sets her down and cradles her face. “My little sunbeam,” he says and kisses her forehead. “I came as soon as I got your letter, the Black Fang is at your disposal.” He looks down to see her belly and his eyes crinkle in a wide grin. “Another one?”

“Eideen for a girl perhaps, and Robin for a boy. Although we may consider Obella if you’re willing to train her how to use a spear.” Rhaenys turns to Robb. “And the rest of our armies are here, they must’ve had no interference on the way south. Let us go greet them and see how they fare in a land without snow.”

Domeric is there, a pleasant surprise, as he brings wonderful news: Sansa is pregnant! Everyone is ecstatic for the new member of the family, and Rhaenys asks why Domeric didn’t just send a raven and parted from his wife. “She told me to go make myself useful, as I’ve been driving her crazy with my worries, or so she says.” He flushes a pale red. “I was at the Neck originally, but when my aunt Lady Dustin asked if I’d like to go tell you in Riverrun personally, I agreed to come.” Domeric will return to the Neck once the Riverlands are cleaned up, and Rhaenys is relieved; she will not see her good sister a widow before their child is born.

Edmure hosts a modest feast for the men, nothing too elaborate due to the realities of another war coming after this current one. Still, there is fresh manchet bread; honeyed chicken and goose; roasted vegetables of every shape and size; and a bounty of lemon cakes. Oberyn and Robb both are quite conscientious of her needs, piling more meat and greens and cakes whenever her back is turned. Roslin lets Rhaenys carry little Axel in her lap, who is a far much quieter and contented toddler than Edgar who weaves through the feasting tables. Geralt is much the same way, happy to spend the hours cuddling and playing with colorful blocks and finger paints. Beron shall be much like Edwin and climb all of Winterfell’s towers before he is a man grown. Rhaenys sighs and rests her cheek against Axel’s curly head. She ought to be with her children now, instead of fighting a war against their kinslayer grandfather. How unkind the world can be, on the eve of the world ending.

Oberyn sees her melancholy, and calls for Riverrun’s musicians to play along with the Black Fang’s own bards. Rhaenys hasn’t seen an oud or a Dornish guitar since Arianne visited Winterfell years ago, and the sound is sharply nostalgic as it is a wonderful change in pace. There are few women in Riverrun, but the ladies and Black Fang’s women fighters deign to dance with men who keep their hands civil, and Rhaenys claps along to the music. Axel giggles when she bounces her lap, Roslin dances with Edmure in her arms and Edgar on her hip, Oberyn challenges Robb to a drinking competition—

Her breath freezes in her chest. The man standing by one of the low tables near the high table, she knows that sallow face and icy eyes. He is dressed in Ryswell colors, gods damn the Ryswells! The Ryswells, the Dustins, Rhaenys counts the lords here. She sees Flints of the northern mountains and Flint’s Finger, she sees Harclays and Knotts and Wulls. The northern clans who needed more time to come south, those clans who hated Rhaenys since the day she alighted at White Harbor. Lady Dustin brays like a horse and Rhaenys’s blood rushes in her temples. She’s laughing at a man who has chain mail peeking beneath his doublet!

She grabs onto Robb’s hand. A door closes somewhere in the hall. “Robb,” she says, and she hardly recognizes her own voice. Another door closes. “Roose Bolton is here and our men are wearing chain mail.”

Yet another door closes. Robb stands up abruptly, and Grey Wind growls from his perch behind them. Oberyn asks what’s wrong, and a final door closes. A man at a high balcony above the hall stands up straight, with a bow in his arms, and Rhaenys screams, **“TRAITORS!”**

Mooncatcher screams from outside Riverrun’s halls and there is immediate chaos. Her own bannermen turn against her, killing their fellow Northerners and Rivermen. The archer on the balcony shoots at Robb who dodges with only a graze on his shoulder. Rhaenys hides beneath the table with a crying Axel, and tells Robb and Oberyn, “Do not get yourselves killed! I forbid it!”

Grey Wind howls and charges into the crowd, tearing men apart. Rhaenys shushes Axel, rocking him, and closes her eyes. She can smell the river water throughout Riverrun, they are surrounded by it on all three sides. She calls to the river, tells it to stream up the sides of the castle and pool all around the hall. Mooncatcher lands heavily at the main entrance to the hall and sets the doors on fire. Oberyn spears a Bolton man to death when he comes too close to Rhaenys, the Black Fang’s warriors scream and war cry in a dozen languages that inspire terror in the hearts of Westerosi men. From beneath the table, she watches a woman sing in a high piercing voice in a language Rhaenys recognizes as if from a dream the Mother had ten thousand years ago. She sings, and shadows twist around a Dustin man’s appendages like rope until they are contorted and broken.

Oberyn spears three men through the throat. Robb does not have Frost, but he has the spear gifted to him by Oberyn years ago, and guts men before they can dream of harming Rhaenys. Bolton stabs Robb in the back with a short dagger, a visious sight that makes Rhaenys scream and the very walls of Riverrun shake. But Robb lives, he lives to spin around and punch Bolton in the face. When Bolton tries to stab Robb again, he is blocked by a bleeding and furious Domeric. Domeric screams at Bolton that is a godless man and a craven. Bolton brings his sword down hard on Domeric’s in response, and their duel is terrifying. No finesse, no honor, just head butts and teeth tearing and little flaying knives blinking between fingers to carve flesh from bone.

Lady Dustin grabs Roslin by the hair and drags her from Edmure’s side, and Edgar screams for his mother. Lady Dustin kicks the body in the chest and he falls with a terrible thud. Edmure is not armed—why would they be armed at a feast?—but he has a bottle of brandy. He uses it as a club on the sea of men separating him from Lady Dustin and Roslin. Rhaenys rests her cheek against the ground and sees the pools of ale and wine and blood on the floor. It’s not much, but it’s enough. She raises three fingers, then swiftly flicks and flips her wrist. The water on the floor pulls together into a sheet, and surges across the floor knocking the traitors from their feet. Lady Dustin falls and Roslin wraps her little white hands around the woman’s throat.

Someone rips the table away from behind them and Rhaenys looks up to see Lord Flint of the northern mountains. He spits at her and raises his ax. Rhaenys bites her lip until it bleeds, and clenches her fists. The rest of the spit in his mouth rushes down his throat to clog his lungs and he falls sputtering and vomiting. She stands up, Axel still in her arms, and she kicks him down the stairs to the mass of people below.

Axel’s nursemaid runs to Rhaenys’s side and offers to take the boy. With her arms now free and Axel at least somewhat safe beneath a different table, Rhaenys can stand tall at the head of the hall. Mooncatcher finally breaks through the door and roars for her rider. The traitors lose their valor, crushed between a raging dragon and a raging direwolf. Mooncatcher doesn’t set the hall aflame, no matter how much she wishes too; instead she eats men alive, just as Grey Wind does, and there’s a sea of blood on the ground. Rhaenys sweeps her arms up high, and imagines all of the water in the Trident becoming arms in themselves, plucking the traitors from the trusted and drowning them where they stand. Rhaenys tilts her head back, and screams.

She screams and the windows shake and Grey Wind and Mooncatcher shriek too and all the men and women in all of Riverrun wail in terror at the unknown, the unimaginable. Water bursts through the windows and like hands pull the traitors from the hall out into the torrent surrounded Riverrun. They are dragged along the ground, bleeding and broken. The water, although smooth in appearance, is boiling and raging beneath its surface and scours their skin away. The Trident runs red on all three sides, and when Rhaenys lowers her arms she herself has only lost a touch of blood. Why would the river demand her own, when she’s given them a sacrifice of hundreds.

The remaining traitors in the hall are the ones who don’t deserve such a death. Lady Dustin is dead, choked to death by the little Southron lady she hoped would be an easy kill. Lord Flint of the northern mountains is dead, from choking or stomping Rhaenys can’t tell. The clan lords are also dead, as the Rivermen and the Black Fang do not suffer fools at a feast. All that remains is Roose Bolton, Domeric’s flaying knife at his neck. Domeric is seriously injured, he’s as pale as porcelain with the terrible gouge from his ribs to his hips. “Forgive me,” he murmurs, “I truly didn’t know.”

“The day where you must apologize for your former family’s crimes is the day there is no justice.” Robb relieves Domeric from holding Bolton at bay and claps a hand on his shoulder. “You saved me. You’re a Whitestark now, brother.” A maester bustles forward to claim Domeric for the healer’s bed and Rhaenys’s attention focuses down on Bolton.

Bolton, her vicious enemy. If Rhaenys hates Rhaegar, she _despises_ Bolton. “I assume that Rhaegar the Betrayer promised you Winterfell if you killed my husband?” Rhaenys checks her nails; they are still blessedly clean. Her hands are not bloodied, not like Bolton who killed her innocent bannermen! Her good uncle’s bannermen! Her uncle’s loyal swords! Does his treachery know no limits?!

Bolton shrugs and says that Rhaegar was quite convincing. “I would have killed you too, of course.” There is such boiling wrath in his eyes, if ice could boil. “And blamed it on Lord Tully when your father wept at your putrid grave.”

Rhaenys’s lips twitch. She turns to Robb and asks, “Who shall swing the sword, my lord husband? His crimes are legendary, and everyone in this room has claim to execute him.”

Robb smiles. “As Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, it is mu duty.” He smiles wider, pointedly at Bolton. “Yet I know just how much he will hate being executed at your hand, my lady wife. To know his life, his name, his memory, shall all be snuffed out by the woman he sought to destroy.”

The traitor at their feet snarls and shakes, but Domeric has cut all the tendons in his arms and he cannot strangle them as he wishes. Rhaenys feels herself grin, a terrible grin with the blood smearing on her lips. “Oberyn, may I borrow your spear?”

Oberyn gives her his spear, and there is such emotion in his dark eyes. Anger, hatred, joy, satisfaction, pride—do those same emotions glitter in her own eyes? Or are her eyes as pitiless as the Mother and the Crone, as the faces carved into weirwood trees? She looks down on Bolton and sees fear in his own face. Water pools up from the ground up and around the spear, making it glow and glimmer in the fire light. “In the name of Aemon of the House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, I, Rhaenys of the House Stark, Princess Targaryen, Lady Witch of Winterfell, sentence you to die.” She tilts her head. “Do you have any last words?”

He spits at her. She flicks the spit off her dress into his eye. And when he screams and tries to clutch at himself, she spears him through the back of the throat with the spear. She gently readjusts her grip, then leverages upwards and rips the spear clean through the top of his head. Like shucking an oyster, like closing a book on the Bolton’s bloody history. The survivors cheer and raise their weapons, and Rhaenys cannot fight her smile.

It is one thing to massacre nameless men on a battlefield, men who fought out of loyalty to their lords. It is entirely another matter to kill the man who has brought her nothing but grief, and to finally, _finally_ end it.

Rhaenys decides to fly back to Winterfell with Robb before going south, to bring Domeric to Sarella’s care and to bring the heads of the traitors back North. Let all her bannermen know that the Lord and Lady Stark do not suffer traitors to the realm! Let them all jeer at the traitors who killed their kin! Before they leave, she cleans out Riverrun’s devastated hall with clean river water and cleans the rivers of corpses. It’s as if it never happened, save the exploded windows and scorched entry doors. Edmure and Roslin thank her over and over for protecting Axel, and Rhaenys smiles sadly. “I would hope for the same regard to my own children,” she says. “I cannot bear the thought of innocents dying because of their parents’ troubles.”

Robb puts the Northern forces under the direction of Lord Karstark, to be aided by Lord Hornwood and Lady Mormont. Loyal lords, good Northern men and women. Robb tells them, “Above all else, protect the innocent and the North,” and they fly back home.

Sarella throws herself into Oberyn’s arms, who spins her around like she is but a girl of seven and not a woman of seven-and-twenty. “My little Sphinx,” he murmurs, “you’ve done so well. And where is my brother’s granddaughter and grandson? Where is the boy named for me?”

Rosario is still confined to bed, but Luceryn is eager to meet his namesake, especially when Oberyn throws him into the air. Sansa, with just the littlest bump on her stomach to prove a child resides there, is half furious and half grieving over Domeric’s bedside. “I told you to make yourself useful, not get yourself gutted!” She scolds and kisses him in equal turns, and Rhaenys can understand it. She herself was quite wroth over Robb’s injury even though she knew Bolton was to blame for a literal backstabbing. She busies herself with playing with her sons, and checking upon her lords, and Alia. Alia, whose eyes are bright and lucid and happy.

“Mama,” Alia smiles. She slowly, carefully, stumbles into Rhaenys’s arms and asks, “Mama, did you win? I heard Auntie Sara talking with Auntie Sansy. Auntie Dany and Auntie Sella win’d in their fights against the mean men. Did you win too?”

Rhaenys smiles, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. She presses kisses all over her child’s face, her forehead and cheeks and little button nose. “Yes, I won. I won because you were cheering for me all the way from Winterfell, and the gods took your cheers and gave them to Mooncatcher to make more dragon fire with.” She hefts Alia onto her hip. Alia has long skinny legs, legs that shall be even longer than Rhaenys’s one day. Rhaenys cannot wait to see her daughter grow taller than her. “Let’s go say hello to Uncle Aemon.”

Aemon still lingers in bed, with the unclaimed direwolf Ghost prowling by his side. Rhaenys startles to see it, and startles to see Aemon’s fingers running through the albino direwolf’s fur. Since when did Aemon bond with a direwolf?! Rhaenys considers it; no wonder Aemon never bonded with a dragon, if his fate was to join with Winterfell’s white wolf. And Ghost, always an enigma in the godswood, never hostile but never friendly, seems devoted to Aemon. Alia whispers loudly, “Mama, Uncle Ae has a wolf! Can he ride like Papa?”

Aemon cough-laughs. “Maybe, if I can go a day without coughing. How are you, my favorite niece?” Alia giggles and sits unbothered by Aemon’s side, even when Ghost sniffs her hair. She babbles about her adventures in learning High Valyrian and Old Rhoynish, and even Summer Islander for fun.

Rhaenys sits back and looks around. She smells the scent of elderberries and sage in the linens folded by the bed, in the bedsheets themselves—Ygritte’s scent. She gives Aemon a look and his eyes are unreadable. She has been gone for a few weeks now, and no one has written about Aemon and Shireen other than about their health. Has he even seen his wife since they were spirited away to Winterfell? Has he fallen for a Free Folk spearwife of all people?!

No, Rhaenys doesn’t know that. The girl has been nothing but a godsend, ever doting on her patients. Who is she to pry into Ygritte’s heart when she’s done nothing wrong? All she can do is pry into Aemon’s coming kingship. Everything else can come after, although Rhaenys makes a note to speak with Shireen later. Alia gently pats Aemon’s chest, saying, “Miss Ygritte says that you have to pat your chest like a drum when you’re con—congi—congested. Are you congested nuncle?”

He smiles and fluffs up her curls. “Not anymore, thanks to you.” Alia beams at him. Aemon turns to Rhaenys and asks in a quieter voice, “What has happened?”

“The Riverlands are pacified, although now we have many traitors’ heads mounted on pikes outside Winterfell.” She sighs. “Rhaegar offered Winterfell to Roose Bolton if he killed Robb, and he turned many of my bannermen against me for that power play.” She twists her lips. “Pity that, they knew what happened at the Dragon Ford. I was not so…artistic, at Riverrun.”

Aemon holds Rhaenys’s hand. “You did what you had to do.”

Rhaenys nods, and tries to put the way those men died out of her mind. She had her fun, for good or ill; now was time to sort out the rest of the war

Branda and Ned have sunk royalists ships in the Narrow Sea with the aid of ironborn reavers, and no one has dared to come close to the Neck after tales of the Dragon Ford started spreading. Aemon is still deathly ill, although Shireen has recovered somewhat, and Oberyn recognizes Melisandre’s poisons. “Ygritte is right, there’s Jon Crow bead at work here. Also hints of the stranger, of Eandan poison-bush, even Summer Isle oleander.”

“Can you find a cure?” Rhaenys asks.

Oberyn nods. “Sarella and Ygritte have done most of the framework, and I know where to find the antidotes for the rest. All I need is a swift ship.” He kisses her forehead. “Fret not, my little sunbeam. We’ll save your brother yet.”

As if summoned by the gods, a few days later a swift ship comes on the morning tide: the _Jolly Kraken_ , with Viserys, Asha and Qarl quick to rush off the gang planks and hug Rhaenys close. “We came as soon as we received your letter,” Viserys mumbles into her shoulder. “How are they? Has anything changed?”

“Come see for yourself.” Rhaenys says, “Asha, you need to meet with your uncle,” on the way to Aemon’s sick room. “Your mother, I’m afraid that she’s dying and wishes to see you.”

Asha sighs, and quiet melancholy rolls over her face. “I’ll take Vis and Qarl and Duyen to her, and ol’ Uncle Reader. I assume he wants me to be his heir?”

“I assume only that he misses you.” Rhaenys opens the door.

However, neither Shireen nor Aemon are in their sick rooms. Rhaenys opens her mouth to suggest searching for Sarella in the library, but she is cut off by a voice.

“Rhaenys!” Sansa runs into the room. “You need to come see this!”

Her voice is not filled with grief or terror, so no one must have died surely? No, there is awe in her eyes, the same awe that people give her when Rhaenys cuts through the sky on Mooncatcher. They follow Sansa out of Winterfell proper to the surrounding fields and hills. Rhaenys stops dead in her tracks when she sees it, and sparks seem to fire off in the tips of her fingers and toes.

Ygritte has taken Aemon, Shireen and the children out for sunlight therapy, as she and Sarella call it even though the pale Northern sun is still hiding behind great pillowing clouds. Alia and Rosario are whispering to each other, Aemon is cough-laughing in a strained voice, and Shireen—Shireen has her arms around Dreamfyre’s iridescent neck as the dragon snuffles and nuzzles against her. Rhaenys knows that easy affection. Dreamfyre has found her rider in Rhaelle Targaryen’s great-granddaughter.

“But why now?” Rhaenys whispers to herself. When Shireen came years prior when Rhaenys still carried Rickon beneath her heart, none of her dragons paid her special mind. Now looking at her, it’s as if Shireen has raised Dreamfyre herself! Such a marvelous sight…and yet did it not take her years before Rhaenys properly bonded with Mooncatcher after a revelation about the moon’s pull upon her heart? Perhaps Shireen, lying in a field of frosted heather as the world goes to shit around her, thought herself the architect of some fantastic, disastrous dream. And then Dreamfyre came to solidify that dream into reality. Rhaenys grins and picks up her skirts so she can run faster. Shireen seems healthier, her cheeks no longer have that terrible pallor and her eyes are clear. “Thief!” Rhaenys calls out playfully and finally reaches the group of people. “You’ve stolen my dragon-child’s heart and my brother’s!”

Shireen laughs, arms still clinging to her dragon. “And when the Others come with their armies of undead, I shall steal your thunder as well.” Rhaenys bemoans that Shireen Baratheon Targaryen shall rule the world by taking it right from beneath their noses. Later, when Shireen has been moved to a new sickroom in a spire so that Dreamfyre may land on her balcony, Shireen says, “I never thought I’d ever ride a dragon. Maybe if Aemon claimed a dragon he’d let me ride along with him but now,” she holds Rhaenys’s hand, and her fingers tremble in Rhaenys’s palm, “now I can defend him. Him and whatever children we may have, if the gods are kind.”

“You’ll be a great mother,” Rhaenys says, “and a great queen. Good Queen Alysanne rode Silverwing, did she not? And now Good Queen Shireen has her Dreamfyre.”

Ravens come from the Reach and the Westerlands. Rhaenys reads them, then shrieks. Robb asks what’s happened, and she kisses him until he’s breathless. She spins Alia around with Risario and Luceryn, she tickles Beron and Geralt, she laughs herself nearly sick. Then she goes to Aemon. He raises his eyebrows. “Good news?”

“The Riverlands, the Reach, and the Westerlands are all allied beneath our banners now.” She gives him a smile, an arch, sharp smile that curves like the edge of Oberyn’s bastard sword and sends chills down her own spine. “All that’s left is the Stormlands and the Crownlands. It’s your nameday soon, Aemon. And as your gift, I shall bring you a crown.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar’s royalist forces gave it a good go…but Team Rhaenys has three Balerion-sized dragons and a lot of pissed off allies and Magic™ all on their side. Rhaegar’s only hope left is to shoot down all the dragons and his kin with scorpions, since Rhaenys is no cowering Rhaenyra. Alas, if Rhaegar were Aegon he’d have a dragon of his own, for all the good it did the bastard! (Can you tell that I think both Aegon and Rhaenyra were awful lmao) And Sunchaser will never entertain the idea of having Rhaegar as a rider, not after he tried to harm his dragon-mothers.
> 
> From the start of this story, I knew that Aemon was going to marry Shireen. I also wanted Aemon/Ygritte because I always liked that pairing. And here we have the convergence of it: while Aemon is fond of Shireen, there hasn’t been enough time in their strained courtship and disastrous marriage for there to be true love. Given time and the peach after a victory against the Night King I imagine that the two shall be quite happy together. But for now, Aemon is falling for Ygritte and Shireen is focusing on her survival and the survival of the realm. At least she has Dreamfyre to keep her company; as Rhaenys realized, Rhaelle Targaryen’s blood runs through her Baratheon blue veins. And for all of the Rebellion AUs involving dragons, I’ve never seen one where Shireen has a dragon in her own right. Then again, I’ve never seen a Rhoynish water magic wielding Rhaenys either!
> 
> At the Trident, Rhaenys sings an English translation of Clair de Lune, a 1869 poem by French poet Paul Verlaine that was the inspiration for the famous piano piece. I love how melancholic the piano and orchestral arrangements of this poem are, and I felt it matched Rhaenys’s feelings at the Trident: abject sadness that she has to fight in a senseless war. At Riverrun however, Rhaenys has none of that tender melancholy. She just screams her outrage into the river lmao
> 
> Did you know that guitars were a thing in medieval Spain? They descended from the Arabic oud and other early medieval lutes, and by the late 1400s there were guitars (guitarra in Spanish). As my Dorne is based on Al-Andalusian Spain, there are guitars. And early versions of flamenco dancing, which descended from a form of belly-dancing popular in Al-Andalus if I remember correctly.
> 
> I gave Lysa a happy ending in this story because I felt pretty bad for her in canon. Always the second Tully girl, sold to a man old enough to be her grandfather, blamed for her miscarriages when Jon Arryn himself had a terrible history of siring children—for all her faults and stupidity and starting the War of Five Kings, I pitied her. So in this story, after Jon Arryn was killed at the Trident, Lysa was remarried to William Mooton who is only three years older than her and always treated her with genuine affection and care. Whether or not Petyr is his son or Petyr Baelish’s son is up to you to decide (I like to think he’s William’s son but I intentionally made it super vague), although I will say that Eleanor is definitely William’s and Lysa has come to love her husband. Go fuck yourself Littlefinger, wherever you ended up in this AU lmao


	16. The Stormbreak

Rhaenys holds a bowl of Winter Knife river water, glowing ever so faintly against her hands. Robb kneels before a dozen stones of similar size and colors, and a knife rests in his hands. He nods at her, and she sighs a song of longing, of the desire to see one’s loved ones again. The water slowly spins in the bowl, and Robb carefully presses the knife against the back of his left forearm. He sings as well, turning her solo into a duet, paired songs about swift winds and swifter tides. Slowly, the water in the bowl turns red, and Robb traces his right finger in runes over the stones. A pale red sigil on each glows, and soon the bowl is empty and the wound on Robb’s arm scabbed over.

Rhaenys kneels next to him and admires the stones. Blessed are these stones; any ship, carriage or hose bearing them shall fly on those swift winds and swift tides. And with the war condensing around the Crownlands, a dozen ships shall take the bulk of Robb’s essential men from Riverrun and the Neck down the Trident to the Blackwater Rush. There they shall wait. When the time is right, they shall take Kings Landing.

Robb carefully wraps the stones in Rhaenys’s shawl, and he says, “It will be over soon, Rhae. This, and the Battle for the Dawn. This time next year, I will take you to Braavos and we can sail down the Rhoyne to Volantis the slow way.”

She smiles and runs her hand across his cheek. “Will you protect me from the river pirates there?” Her voice is light and airy like the breeze rustling through the meadows. “I’ve heard such terrible stories about them, far more vicious than even the Night King himself. I fear I shall faint at the sight of them.”

He kisses her fingers when they press against his lips. “Pity those fool enough to battle us,” he murmurs. “But I can understand them. They need only look at you once, and immediately covet to steal you as their bride.”

She blushes and he helps her rise to her feet. They leave Winterfell’s library and head for Benjen and Catelyn’s rooms to see how they are faring with the increasing amount of people come to winter in the winter town. But before they can arrive, Sansa bustles up to Rhaenys’s side. “There you are, please help me.”

“Help you with what?”

Sansa pulls Rhaenys away, Robb chuckling in bemusement. But Rhaenys is far less amused when she finds Shireen fighting with Aemon. Ygritte tries to placate them with her hands raised, Oberyn leans against a wall with his arms crossed, and Sarella looks entirely finished with both of them. “I know your blood is hot,” Ygritte says, “and I know you’ve been breathing better e’er since you matched with that dragon of yours. But battle is too much, you cannae risk your lungs!”

“You read his letter!” she yells and stabs a finger towards Aemon. “And don’t you dare tell me he’s in safe hands, he’s going up against Jon Bloody Connington! The man who killed Victarion Greyjoy in single combat! The man who cut down Jon Arryn with a thousand knights riding against him!”

Aemon glares at her and hisses, “And a fine shieldmaiden you’ll be, when your lungs are filled with pus!” Shireen coughs, as to prove his point, and Aemon wheezes for a moment. Then he says, “You are my queen, Shireen! I will not let you waste your life like this!”

“And I will not just sit here and let another one of my family die when I can help!” She clutches her chest. “Just—just give me whatever antidotes you have for now, I only need three days. Three days, to the Stormlands and back, and then I can come back and you can be as angry as you want. But I _will_ help my father, Aemon. I dare you to try and stop me.”

Rhaenys looks at Oberyn, who motions at the letter. She reads it—she and Robb must have spent too much time in the library developing their river runes, Rhaenys doesn’t remember receiving this. But it’s true: Stannis will be facing Jon Connington in battle south of Storm’s End with all their combined might. Rhaenys asks Shireen, “What do you intend?”

“I intend to feed that lickspittle to Dreamfyre!” There is a red flush to her cheeks, stark against the pallor and sweat of her skin. Shireen is angry, angrier than Rhaenys has ever seen her, and she is afraid. “I ask this of you Rhaenys: if you were the one sick in bed because a wicked bastard poisoned you, and Robb was somewhere south facing against a terrible army, wouldn’t you try to do anything you could?”

Rhaenys flinches. Aemon snaps, “That’s not the same, Robb is her husband—”

“And you are mine! If you were the one at war, I would also be mounting Dreamfyre’s back to save you!” Shireen turns away. “I don’t expect you to understand, you don’t love your father like I love mine. But I’ll say it again, I am going south!”

Aemon opens his mouth and Sarella interrupts them. “Yelling at each other will only strain your lungs and your heart,” she says and her voice is ice. “Now both of you are going to sit, and let Oberyn and Ygritte and I do our work. After that, you and Lady Cersei can discuss this, as your lady mother is most distraught at your upset, Your Grace.” Shireen flushes harder and Sarella glares at Aemon. “Be far from me to give you counsel, an unmarried maester and a bastard at that. But perhaps you’ll find a solution without needing to attack each other. Save it for the Long Night.”

Rhaenys quickly backs out of the room, and turns to see Sansa and Cersei hovering around the corner. “Shireen is being foolish,” she tells them. “But I admit I’d be the exact same way if it were my mother at risk, or Benjen and Catelyn.”

Cersei sighs. “She loves her father like nothing else in this world.” She looks out the window that faces the courtyard, where in the far distance dragons play in the sky. “What was it she was yelling? Three days there and back? Is that truly too much for her?”

“I default to the maesters of course…” Rhaenys leans in to whisper, “but I promise that if she goes south I’ll go with her. She will not die anytime soon, be it on the healer’s bed or on dragonback.” Cersei’s shoulders sag with relief; the usually proud and defiant woman is careworn and grey, and Rhaenys knows that if Shireen gets herself killed Cersei shall be quick to follow. Rhaenys motions art the door. “Go in, my lady. Speak with her and help the two find common ground.”

That common ground is reached the next day. Shireen shall indeed be flying with Rhaenys to the Stormlands to relieve her father Stannis, and then she will fly Stannis back to Storm’s End. Cersei shall sail to Storm’s End with the _Jolly Kraken_ as bait for the Royal Fleet. Then the Redwyne and Braavosi fleets shall rout them, and the Velaryon fleet will reveal their true allegiance. The _Jolly Kraken_ will then continue to the Iron Islands to meet with Lord Harlaw, and their combined allies shall close in around Kings Landing. Easy enough, if everything goes to plan; catastrophic if they fail, of course. Aemon is angry, Rhaenys can tell, but he is resigned. “I ate most of the poisoned pie,” he says to her in between wheezes. “I am the one at risk of my body falling apart, and Shireen…we had a long talk. I couldn’t forgive myself if I did nothing to help you if you were the one in danger. Not could I forgive myself if Stannis died and Shireen had to find out by raven here in Winterfell.”

Rhaenys kisses his forehead. “Be well, little brother. Your wife is safe with me.” Rhaenys pauses. Ygritte is folding linens in the background, doing her chores and humming her tune about poor Peggy-o. Aemon’s gaze follows Ygritte’s trailing red hair, and Rhaenys’s heart constricts at the longing she sees in his eyes. She whispers, “Be mindful of yourself,” and takes her leave.

Robb kisses her, Alia and the twins before he departs with his men south. With their river runestones, their speed by ship may match Rhaenys’s speed by dragonback. “Be safe,” she tells him. “I love you.”

“And I love you,” and he is gone. Rhaenys knows he will be more safe than she, as the Riverlands are allied to her and the Stormlands still at fractious war. Still, her heart aches to see him sail away towards the Neck. She wonders if she will ever get used to the sight of him walking away, and decides she never wants to.

Shireen is dressed in a similar dress to Rhaenys’s riding dress, with a thicker linen shift and a luxurious fox fur-lined cloak. In a way, she seems the Visenya to Rhaenys now. And her expression is as determined as Argella’s when dragons came to Storm’s End. “Shireen,” Rhaenys says, “there’s something I need to talk to you about. Aemon and Ygritte—”

“I know.” She shrugs lightly. “I’ve known for a while now, and it’s fine.” Rhaenys raises her eyebrow. Shireen sighs and busies herself with adjusting the straps of her provisions to Dreamfyre’s back. “Yes, it stings my pride to know that he loves someone else. And I’m not blind to the implications—Rhaegar and Lyanna’s love shall haunt Westeros for generations to come. But,” and she looks at Rhaenys with her clear blue eyes, “there is this stupid war, and the war to come. Who am I to judge where he can find his happiness, if that happiness gives him the strength to win?”

“I’ll talk to him regardless,” Rhaenys says. She spies Sarella with her packs of strange poultices coming. She will accompany them south, in case Shireen has a fit of breathlessness and chokes on her own blood. “I want you two to be happy together, not separately.”

Shireen smiles and pats Rhaenys’s arm. “With you and Robb as our example, we can be nothing but. Now let’s go, my father is waiting.”

They fly south, all their plans and cares and fears disappearing beneath the cloud cover. Shireen’s eyes are wide, from what Rhaenys can see from Mooncatcher’s back, and both her and Sarella laugh in wordless wonder to have clouds slinking through their outstretched fingers. Hours pass like that, so soft and quiet here where the only thing that can harm them is a sudden chill or the chance of rain. And indeed, the farther south they go the more the clouds go grey and thick with water and static. Rhaenys hears a distant rumbling beneath them, and signals for Shireen to go lower. She does, and together they dip beneath the clouds.

The clouds part to reveal hundreds of ships in a terrible naval battle. Rhaenys’s eyes widen as the Royal Fleet smashes against the Stormlander, the Redwyne, the Velaryon and the Braavosi fleets. Arrows sing through the air and bury themselves into men’s backs; reinforced warships plow through the decks of lesser ships. And worst of all, the Royal Fleet lobs flaming wildfire to every rebel ships that comes too close. Rhaenys counts the ships remaining, and she knows that the Royal Fleet will have to surrender eventually due to manpower alone, even with their wildfire weapons.

Alas for them, Rhaenys has no intention of letting the battle bleed itself dry. Mooncatcher screams along with her rider and swoops down. Men cry out and hit their decks in primordial terror. They fly straight at the lead warship of the Royal Fleet, the head of the hydra. Shireen does the same, and Rhaenys hears the whispers of _“Dracarys!”_ over the whipping winds. And at once the ship is aflame in multicolored ruin. The dragons shrieks their dragon song, and Rhaenys is transfixed by the beautiful flames, how Shireen’s hair glows a thousand colors in the terrible light. Do the people below see their queen bringing justice upon them? Will they love her as much as they fear her?

Well, the men in the ships certainly fear her. Rhaenys torches an extra few ships of her own, midnight flames mixing with mother-of-pearl smoke until the battle is lost entirely for the Royal Fleet. Rhaenys’s allied men cheer their names, and Rhaenys calls out to Shireen, “Come! Let them handle the rest!”

Shireen peels away, and together they fly out to join the Stormlands in their battle. It takes a while to spot them, as Rhaenys is unfamiliar with the Stormland coastline and Shireen is coughing again. The terrible storm batters wind and hail against them, enough that Mooncatcher hisses in irritation and Rhaenys’s teeth chatter. But at a long stretch in Cape Wrath they spot the flames and screams of war. From above Rhaenys counts the colors of the men below: red and white for Connington, black and gold for Baratheon. They’ve found Stannis! Rhaenys and Shireen land, and Sarella immediately tells them, “Make this quick, Your Grace is not ready to be fighting in a downpour.” Shireen eats more of Sarella’s strange paste, her face contorting in disgust. Sarella gives Rhaenys a once over. “Any cramps? The need to make water?”

“The babe is content ever still.” Rhaenys pats her stomach. “They’ll have to be named the Battleborn considering how much strife they’ve seen before their first breath.”

“Try not to give birth in a battlefield, I make no promises if your Battleborn would appreciate that.” Sarella carefully runs her hands over Dreamfyre’s scales. “At least your marvelous dragon hasn’t decided to eat me yet. At your leave, Your Grace, my lady.”

They take off once again, squinting through the pounding rain and wind. Below them on the battlefield most of the men are too intermingled in war to pick out cleanly, but Rhaenys spies a calvary rush in red and white Rhaenys points them out, and Shireen and Dreamfyre chase after them. Dreamfyre’s roars meld with the crackle of thunder and it’s like the wrath of the gods set upon these mortal men fighting in a war that shouldn’t have been. Rhaenys watches her go, shivering at the sight. Is _that_ what she looked like at the Dragon Ford? When she brought the Trident into Riverrun’s hall? Shireen is terrifying, Shireen is powerful, Shireen is a _queen_ and the Maiden reborn out of the Warrior’s whole cloth. Rhaenys hopes she can have but a thimble of such radiance in herself.

She calls down at the men below to surrender to Lord Stannis and Queen Shireen if they wish to live past this storm and prays that they listen. And to their credit, many of them fall to the bloody mud and cover their heads with their hands, their swords long forgotten. Those who don’t, they die. Such is war.

Rhaenys scans the men for Stannis and spies him in a clearing surrounded by dead bodies. He is locked into single combat with Jon Connington; both are bloody, both are missing their helms and their hair plasters to their faces. Red against black, the griffin and the stag. Rhaenys circles above them. Mooncatcher screams at any royalist men who would dare interfere and stab Stannis in the back. Rhaenys watches them fight, she is too transfixed to look away. Stannis’s ever move is tailored for efficiency, blunt and unyielding. But there is a terrible strength in Jon Connington, a fevered desire for victory that makes him inhuman. His pale blue eyes are red from strain and mania, and to Rhaenys he is more terrifying than even a pack of hellhounds. He bashes his sword hilt to pieces against Stannis’s sword to jar Stannis’s arm. When Stannis retreats in defense, Jon Connington dares to drop his sword entirely. In that one second of shock, he grabs the dagger in his belt and stabs at Stannis’s chest.

Were it an iron dagger, the finest steel dagger in Westeros, it should’ve skidded down the plate armor. But Rhaenys knows that dagger. It is the Valyrian steel dagger Rhaegar gave him as a gift, and the reforged steel punches straight through.

Shireen screams at Stannis, _“Father!”_

Both men look up above, and Dreamfyre roars loud enough to deafen every man and woman on the battlefield. Lightning strikes, rain pours, and Jon Connington goes snow white with terror. Shireen shrieks, and her dragon spirals down towards the sodden earth. A scream, a quiet crunch that raises all the hairs on Rhaenys’s arms, and Jon Connington is no more. Rhaenys tells Mooncatcher to scream, and scream she does, a volley of violet fire into the sky until all the fighting comes to a final shuddering stop. Only then does Rhaenys dare to land, and help Sarella down from Dreamfyre’s back. She can hear Stannis’s men taking control of the inevitable surrender, but that hardly matters to her at this moment. No, what matters is the dagger hilt buried in Stannis’s heart.

Stannis falls to his knees. Shireen runs to his side, and cradles him to her chest. “Papa!” she cries, and presses one hand to his cheek, the other to the dagger. “Papa, just breathe, ok? Maester Alleras is here, they’ll save you, all shall be well!”

Rhaenys and Sarella kneel next to them. Sarella stares at the dagger hilt jolting to heartbeats, at the blood flaking Stannis lips and rapidly staining their dresses, then at Rhaenys. There is resignation in her eyes, a quiet acceptance that turns Rhaenys’s stomach until she could vomit. “Cover him, quickly,” she tells Rhaenys. Rhaenys tears off her cloak and puts it around Stannis’s wound and shoulders. How quickly the gray turns black with blood, how quickly his hands are icy cold and colorless.

Stannis coughs, and reaches up to brush his knuckles over Shireen’s cheek. “You’re here, child. Are…you well?”

Shireen cares not. She merely smiles, despite the tears and the rain pouring down from her face to drip onto his chest. “I’m well now, Papa. I—I ride a dragon now, did you see her? Her name is Dreamfyre, and when Aemon and I have children they shall ride upon her back too. You and Mother as well, I’ll convince Dreamfyre of it.” She sniffles. “We’ll have our Tommis and our Nessa and Cersella and you will dandy them on your knee and teach them to be good. You just need to hold on just a little bit more, you’ll see.”

Stannis smiles, such a tender smile that takes years away from his face. “My little girl…a dragon queen…” Shireen clasps her hand to her face. His eyelids lower, just a touch. Yet his eyes are ever fixed on Shireen. “The greatest thing I’ve ever done…is to have you for my daughter…” And his eyes stare at something beyond her face, beyond where Rhaenys can see. Shireen begs him to keep breathing, even as his chest stills and the blood cools and Rhaenys and Sarella bow their heads. As all the assembled men around them bow their heads, or raise their swords.

Finally, finally, Shireen knows. And she screams, a raw terrible scream that’s not even human, it’s the sound straight from the seven hells that Rhaenys would give all the Iron Bank’s fortunes to never have to hear again. Rhaenys cries herself, to hear Shireen scream and to see Stannis cradled in his daughter’s arms with that godsdamned dagger sticking out of his chest, with the rain and the wind and the lighting shattering down into the sea.

Eventually, when Shireen has been quiet for some time and Rhaenys has lost feeling in her legs and the rains have lessened to a hazy mist, she asks, “What do you wish to do, Your Grace? Just say the word and I shall see it done.”

“…mercy for the traitors.” Her voice is as dark as the clouds above them. And her eyes, godsforbid but the sorrow in her eyes, the _hate_. “Oh, what would I give to hang them all, Rhaenys. What I would give to take this sword and cut them all down and let Dreamfyre feast on their bleeding bodies. I could do it, you know. What are even a thousand men to a dragon?” She closes her eyes. “But I am queen now. Let it be said in history that I was a merciful one who helped heal after war, instead of bringing more ruin. The commanders of the traitors will go to the wall, and the petty men shall kneel to me and swear forever more to never rise up again in treachery.” She stands, and struggles to bring Stannis with her. Rhaenys helps and they carry him to Dreamfyre, even as death has turned Stannis’s body to impossibly heavy stone. Rhaenys barks Shireen’s orders to the Stormlander bannermen, demands that the royalists who have been spared death and the Wall be the ones to clean up the mess. Someone gives her a Baratheon banner and a horse’s saddle. Rhaenys and Shireen shroud Stannis’s body, and cannibalize the leather to strap Stannis securely to Dreamfyre.

Shireen looks down at her men, with the blood soaked through her dress and her hair clinging to her wet face. She repeats her orders in a voice that carries through the storm. “If you lead these men against my father, your Lord Paramount—against my lord husband and I, your king and queen, then you are a traitor. Traitors deserve death, it is known. But I will give you the mercy your false king Rhaegar the Betrayer did not offer me on my own wedding day! You highborn commanders, loyal to a fault to those you shouldn’t have given loyalty to, you will go to the Wall. You serve there and put your swords to proper use. And you smallfolk, you gentry and petty lords swept up as bannermen to this lost cause…swear to me now to never rise again against your lawful lords and rulers. Swear to me that you shall bury your dead, and replant the trees you cut down for your weapons. Swear to me that you will return to your families, and hold them tight, as I can never hold my father again.”

At once, the men surrender to Shireen and do so swear. The clouds, diminished and spent, finally part to reveal the cold Stormland sky and sheets of pale winter sunlight. She, haloed in light and iridescent steam and blood, is a true queen of war and mercy. And Rhaenys leads the chant that grows among the men. They chant for their Queen Shireen, for their Stormbreak Queen. Shireen gives them a smile, terrible and broken, and Rhaenys curtsies deep into the bloody mud for her queen.

“I will return to Storm’s End,” Shireen tells her in private. “To bury my father, and comfort my mother. She…” Shireen clutches at her chest, “she loved him, and he loved her, no matter what they appeared to do. And I need her right now.”

Rhaenys offers her arms, and bundles Shireen into a hug. “You don’t need to justify this for me, Shireen.” She strokes her hair, and feels the poor woman sobs into her shoulder. How many more burdens must they bear before the wretched man on the throne finally pays for his crimes? “Do what you know needs to be done. Mourn him, as he was a great father and a great man.”

“Take Kings Landing,” Shireen says in between sobs and wet coughs that make Rhaenys’s own chest hurt. “Make them pay!”

Rhaenys narrows her eyes, and feels her body burn with the desire for revenge. For vengeance. For her brother and good sister, and all the innocents of the realm who deserved none of this. “I do so swear, my queen. When you and Aemon come to Kings Landing, you shall find it the jewel of your crown.”

Sarella goes with Shireen to Storm’s End to maintain her health, and Rhaenys leads the small contingent of Northern banenrmen at Cape Wrath north. She flies low over the sea carrying her men on swift waves, and Mooncatcher amuses them with plumes of intricate violet and blue flames. Even now, years later, a dragon can inspire such awe and joy in those who hear its song, see it fly. Or fear and terror, in equal turns. Rhaenys is tired of the terror, of the fear, of the animal screams of a daughter mourning a father.

She wants Robb, and the warmth of his arms.

At the border of the Riverlands and Crownlands she reunites with him. Nyserix and Rhaelaxes are in the skies above their giant camp, and Mooncatcher dances with them beneath the moon. Ah, Daenerys and Lysella must have returned from the Reach and Westerlands. Rhaenys greets her lords as she strides through the camp towards Robb’s tent. She’s since changed her dress and washed her face and body, but she must look a terrible sight of war and careworn grief. She opens the tent flap to find Daenerys and Lysella speaking of their own battles. “Lady Melessa came with me in person to try and convince her father to stand down,” Daenerys says with a happy flush to her cheeks. “And when he refused, she threw herself down on the battlefield, tore off her cloak and asked if he was prepared to kill the grandchild in her belly. He had no answer to that but Dickon did and he left ranks to go join his sister. Then I swooped up behind them on Nyserix,” and she spreads her arms wide, “and told them to surrender lest they meet the Gardener fate. Unfortunately, some of them insisted on fighting, but to be face to face with Balerion’s better half took the wind out of their sails.”

“I was not nearly as dramatic,” Lysella adds in a prim voice. “I just came down from the cloud cover and burned some cross stitches in the royalists. Maybe three lines, and the survivors then threw down their swords and took up out clemency offer—Rhae!”

They all turn to see her, standing there wan and sad with the candlelight making strange shadows on her face. She makes herself smile at them. “I’m glad to see you are safe and hale. Have you any more lemonsweet for me?”

Robb goes to her side and leads her to a chair. “What happened?”

“The Stormlands are pacified, and the Royal Fleet may be finished now.” Rhaenys looks at all of them and lets them see her sadness. “Lord Stannis is dead.” Daenerys gasps. “Jon Connington stabbed him in the chest with his Valyrian steel dagger. Sarella could do nothing. He died in Shireen’s arms.” Lysella puts a goblet of lemonsweet in her hands. Rhaenys takes a sip and wishes for wine. “She’s gone to Storm’s End now, to…tend to his body and to Lady Cersei. She told us to take Kings Landing for her.”

Robb’s eyes are as dark as midnight. “Aye, and we shall.” For a while they speak about the upcoming battles, for Rhaenys’s heart isn’t in it and her aunt and sister see how she needs Robb. They take their leave, and Robb helps her undress for bed. Rhaenys sits down on the double-wide cot and tears fill her eyes. Robb kneels before her and asks, “What can I do to help, my love?”

“When Lord Stannis died, Shireen screamed. I’ve never such a scream before, the closest I can think of is when Mama screamed on her pyre for Jaime and me.” Rhaenys runs her hand through his hair. “It was the sound of losing a father. I wonder if I shall do the same if…no, _when_ Rhaegar dies.”

Robb presses a kiss to her palm, and to her stomach. “Once, when I was just a green boy, my da’s horse threw a shoe and he was thrown down a hill. He was fine, but when I saw him fall down out of sight—Jory Cassel says I outmatched a banshee. I don’t remember yelling, I was just terrified for him.” His face is pensive as he gazes up at her. “But he is my da. He taught me everything I know, how to wield a sword and how to write a letter and how to be a good man.” Rhaenys smiles at him; Robb has Eddard’s near-genetic sense of honor and duty, and he also has Benjen’s smiles and spirit. How fortunate her children are, to have two grandfathers to be loved by even with Eddard at the Wall. Robb hesitates, and asks, “Your father, was he ever truly your father?”

Rhaenys considers it. “Before the Rebellion, I remember him and Mama together with me. I think Mama was pregnant, as Rhaegar left right after Aegon was born to start a war.” She stares at a point somewhere far away, years and years ago. “He was singing on his harp to us, and I was on his lap. He was helping me pluck the strings, and Mama was laughing and clapping for us. And he said—he said something kind, I don’t remember the words but I remember the voice. How warm and soft it was, like his hands. I felt loved then.” Rhaenys wipes at her eyes. “What happened, Robb? What changed him? I cannot know what Mama or I did to deserve this, why did his love go away and change into…into something so evil?”

“It’s nothing you or your mother did.” He leans up and kisses her. He rests her hands on her belly, and their babe kicks at him. Rhaenys smiles to see the wonder on his face, the pure love when he rests his cheek on her stomach. He squeezes their hands together. “I’ve been fortunate with both my fathers. They are good men. But not all men are good.” He stands up and cups her face in his hands. “I cannot imagine ever treating you or our children as he treated you and your mother. He is beyond my understanding, but I swear to you you’ll never know that pain from me.”

Rhaenys rests her head’s weight in his hands, lets him carry her heaviness just for a moment. “And will our children know Shireen’s pain? Promise me you’ll never go out of your way to die, neither I nor our children will be able to bear it.”

“And I would never feel joy again if you were to die,” he says, and they climb into bed together. “I do not intend to die before Alia gives me great-grandchildren. But I will gladly give my life twice over if it means you’ll be safe.”

Rhaenys snuggles against him. “I’m safe, right here.” And her eyes close and the heavy grief pulls her down to sleep with the sound of his heartbeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended the chapter here instead of going onto the next chapter’s content because this is the logical end. Let’s all pour one out for Stannis the Mannis, who died as he lived: a stone cold motherfucker with a marshmallow heart. Poor Shireen can’t get a break in this story it seems, but our new Stormbreak Queen WILL have her happy ending…eventually…if she survives the Long Night…
> 
> It’s becoming very clear to me how OP Balerion-sized dragons are on an open field if the dragons never touch down on the ground. Like, if you don’t have scorpions or very VERY talented archers you best just surrender all hope. And Rhaenys has 4 in her arsenal for Aemon and Shireen—Rhaegar and Lyanna are best off throwing themselves to their mercy before Rhaenys storms Kings Landing. Or at least sending Aegon off somewhere before his parents get eaten by dragons like that punk ass Jon Connington
> 
> Next chapter is the Battle of Kings Landing! Writing battle scenes is agony but it’s great practice for the upcoming Battle for the Dawn!


	17. The Throne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Earlier update than usual because I'm losing my mind. A full week of school closure has gone by and I’ve written more now than I’ve ever written in my life. My fingers hurt from typing, I want to do something other than typing, but I must type—I am determined to finish this story no matter what. And there’s nothing else to do at work anyway, with all the students gone and the teachers forced to go to work anyway because obviously teachers are impervious to coronavirus lmao

Rhaenys watches the ravens fly south. There go her demands for immediate surrender of Kings Landing, her intentions to bring hell upon that city. She hopes the citizens evacuate, she does not intent to spill innocent blood in her quest for justice. Will Rhaegar be so craven to use human shields against her wrath? She shudders and Robb wraps his arm around her.

From where the Mander meets the Blackriver the _Jolly Kraken_ sails north, and Rhaenys greets her family with hugs and cheek pinches. “Such a fancy new cloak you have, Asha,” she says. Asha gives her a little spin, where a silver scythe glows on sable wool and the cloak is cinched with a three headed dragon brooch. “Did you steal that from some unsuspecting Harlaw maiden?”

“If I had, I’d probably be short a finger or two.” Asha inhales, exhales, and says, “I talked with my nuncle Rodrik, and my mother. I am to be the next Lady Harlaw, with Viserys as my husband and Qarl as my official paramour, as the Dornish call it. Duyen is my heir after me and whatever heirs she may have after her. That’s the gist of it anyway.” She reaches out to tuck one of Qarl’s curls behind his ear and he winks at her. “The truth is that Nuncle and Mother were a bit scandalized by us doing what King Bastard couldn’t, but they’re happy for us and the ironborn care not as long as we raise Duyen as a proper seawoman.”

“Will you be abandoning the _Jolly Kraken_ then?” Rhaenys cannot imagine her uncles and aunt living in a proper castle in Westeros, albeit an unorthodox castle. “What about your plans to sail all the way around Sothoryos?”

Viserys snorts. “Dear Rodrik intends to read every single book in his library and at the Citadel before he dies. I dare say he will live to a hundred and forty years out of pure determination. So I doubt he’ll mind if we make our trip to the Southern Jade Sea and the Opal Sea, as long as we bring him back some books.”

Rhaenys prays that Lord Harlaw does indeed live a long life, and that nothing bad happens to her uncles and aunt and niece. Her heart will not survive their deaths, not after everything that’s kept them apart from her side. Qarl sees her melancholy and gives her a gift: a beautiful white conch shell flecked with blue and gray. “I thought Alia would like it,” he says, and Rhaenys hugs him for his thoughtfulness. Now she has a treasure for her daughter, just as she’s promised.

Viserys gives her an oilsack cloth bag and tells her these are the remaining herbs and flowers for the poison antidote. “Lucky for you we are in the habit of collecting exotic plants to try and make distilled spirits out of,” he explains with a wink. Rhaenys crushes him with a hug, her belly bending his back out.

Rhaenys looks down at the bag, and at the little envelope in her hands, sealed with black wax.

“Lysella,” she calls out to the camp. In moments her sister runs to her side. “I need you to take these herbs to Maester Alleras and Oberyn, and to carry this message directly to Aemon at Winterfell for me. I don’t trust a raven with it.” Lysella asks what’s inside and Rhaenys sighs. “Very difficult questions for our brother. Bets be on your way, do you have your scarf? Your cloak?”

Lysella laughs and rolls her eyes. “yes, Mother,” and she leaves.

Rhaenys’s stomach clenches. In that unassuming envelope, she’s asked Aemon if he wants her to execute his mother or spare her. She doesn’t know which answer she wants to receive.

Later, as Rhaenys waits for Lysella’s return and Robb massages her swollen feet, Asha plops down next to her with a sigh. “How can you stand being pregnant, little sun? The very thought makes me want to crawl out of my bones.” She shudders. “And having an infant, Vis and Qarl and I adopted Duyen when she was six and even that was too young. We were faint with horror every time she cried and couldn’t tell us what was hurting.”

“I think this will be the last pregnancy for a while.” Rhaenys groans with relief as Robb forces her feet to stop being wretched, swollen…she doesn’t even know the word to describe them, other than that they hurt and are almost too big for Robb’s boots! “You might be the smartest one between us, Asha. If anyone ever asks you if you want a baby, remember me now, pregnant and at war.”

Asha pinches her cheek. “Ballads shall be sung about you, and wives shall chide their husbands for shying away from hard labor when you yourself might go into lard labor.”

Rhaenys laughs. She’s still laughing when Lysella returns with Oberyn. “Uncle?” Rhaenys sits up as straight as she can in her chair. “Is everything alright? How are the children and Aemon?”

He kisses her forehead. “They’re safe with Sarella and Ygritte. The antidote should clear out the rest of the poison, Alia and Saria are already good as new but your brother’s lungs are stubborn.” Oh thank the gods. Rhaenys sags with relief, knowing her daughter and Rosario are finally, finally safe. And that soon Aemon and Shireen shall be as well, once Oberyn goes to Storm’s End. However, he is not. “My place now is at your side, little sun.” Rhaenys meets his gaze and she knows the darkness in his eyes matches her own. “I was not there when my sister met her fate. I will be there when the bastard meets his own.”

That night, Rhaenys cannot sleep. The next day they will make their attack on Kings Landing and bring an end to this stupid exercise in war. She brushes her hair a thousand times, until Robb stills her hand. “What troubles you, my love?”

“…Aemon told me to execute his mother.” Lyanna, the stepmother that Rhaenys found herself loving up until she betrayed them so viciously. “He told me to drown her, instead of using dragonfire.” She doesn’t know if he meant that as a mercy or as justice.

Robb folds her into his embrace. “I’m sorry, for you and him and Sella. I cannot imagine what this must feel like.”

“It feels like if I had done something different years ago, maybe this wouldn’t have happened.” Maybe Rhaenys should’ve gone south after her wedding and kept Melisandre away from Lyanna and Visenya. But how was she supposed to know that would’ve happened? And her place was in the North, where Rhaegar and Lyanna sold her…she shakes her head. “Such a waste of life.”

“Whatever happens, I am at your side, Rhae.”

She smiles and kisses him softly, sweetly, like they’re newlywed again. “I cannot imagine you anywhere else.”

Dawn rises with a raven from Kings Landing and the song of dragons. All the assembled men and women stand before Rhaenys and Robb. Thousands of them, from the North and the Riverlands and the Iron Islands. The dragons soar overhead and Grey Wind stands as tall as a draft horse by Robb. What would the Rhaenys of her youth say to see her with a dress of grey and red, oil-slick pearls at her throat and on her diadem? To see that not only magic is real, but that it drips from Rhaenys’s fingertips? Rhaenys smiles. She hopes she would impress herself.

“Today marks the end of Rhaegar the Betrayer,” she says and her voice projects over the crowd. They rustle to hear her, and she continues, “None of you are blind to his crimes. All of you, in some way, shape or form, have been affected by him. By his viciousness, his callous disregard for the men and women of the Seven Kingdoms. From Dorne to the Wall, from the Blackwater Bay to Cape Kraken, our nation is splintered by his actions.” She sees the fire in their eyes, she sees the need for justice. Vengeance. “You know how the truth goes! Rhaegar and his wife Lyanna poisoned King Aemon and Queen Shireen so that Aegon Secondborn could be put on the throne! So that my sisters the Princesses Lysella and Visenya, and my aunt the Princess Daenerys, could all be married to that little infant. He wanted my husband Robb Stark killed so that he could marry me! He wanted my own children dead so he could supplant them with his!”

“The rotten bastard!” Someone screams and the crowd screams with him.

“I will not stand for this, my lords! Will you?”

“Nay!”

Rhaenys pulls out the letter from Kings Landing. It is sealed with red wax and a sigil of flames. Rhaenys reads it aloud before the soldiers. “The Lord of Light shall cast down those who go against his path. The night is dark and full of terrors.” She lowers the letter. “This was signed by my own sister, Visenya Targaryen!”

Lysella yells, “Let me show her exactly what those terrors are in that night, my lady!” and the crowd cheers their agreement.

Robb raises his fist and yells, “I stand by my wife Rhaenys Stark! Will you stand by her!”

“AYE!”

And with the scream of men and direwolves and dragons, they cross the border into the Crownlands. Rhaenys, Daenerys and Lysella fly ahead, and the shadows of their dragons engulf entire villages. With the river runestones, a week long march takes but half a day sailing on the Blackwater Rush. The river is precious to Rhaenys, the same color as her eyes and the source of where her journey began. She sings to it, telling it to bring forth the end of Rhaegar’s journey.

Kings Landing is surrounded on all sides by her allies and the sight fills her heart with joy. The Stormlands; the Reach; the Westerlands; the Vale and Dorne have their fists clenched tight in a strangehold over the capital. And with the North, the Riverlands and the Iron Islands joining—this is a sight none have ever seen before, and hopefully shall never have to see again. Rhaenys lands before Arianne, resplendent in Martell orange and yellow, and her cousin curtsies to her. “My lady princess,” Arianne declares, “I have brought the finest of the Greenblood here with me. We seek justice for our Lady Witch, and our departed Sun of Dorne.”

“And justice you will have,” Rhaenys promises her. “How many remain in the city?”

“Precious few,” and Arianne leads her to the commanding tent. She shows a scale model of Kings Landing, where three dozen scorpions line the walls. “We were quite convincing when we told the smallfolk and the gentry to abandon a sinking ship. Tales of brand new Fields of Fire spread fast with our bards.”

“Where are Rhaegar, Lyanna and Visenya?”

“King Bastard and Queen Childslayer are in the Red Keep with their infant. Visenya and the Red Witch are in the Grand Sept of Baelor with the High Septon himself and a host of men.” Arianne frowns. “There are reports that Visenya and Melisandre are burning people at the Sept in preparation for something, but we don’t know what.”

“I’ll just have to burn down the Sept.” Arianne barks with laughter and Rhaenys asks, “And are we ready for battle?”

Arianne grins. “We’ve been waiting on you, little sun. It’s not nice to keep us waiting.”

The sun begins to set over Kings Landing. Rhaenys kisses Robb soundly—he and Grey Wind shall be on the ground against the royalist forces. He is safest on dragonback, ‘tis true, but as Lord of Winterfell he must fight. “Just like the Dragon Ford,” he says against her neck, and kisses it. “I doubt I shall do anything important with three dragons leading the way.”

Rhaenys clutches him close. “Be safe.”

“Be safe,” he echoes.

Robb takes his leave to lead the men along side the other commanders, and Rhaenys heads to her dragon. People nod and cheer for her, calling her their Rhaenyra Redeemed, and what an incredible thing it is to hear that. If Aemon had died, Rhaenys would truly be Rhaenyra taking her crown from Aegon.

This time it will be different. This time, no one else needs to die but the man on the throne.

She hugs Daenerys and Lysella before they mount their dragons. They rise into the sky, and beneath her she hears Arianne and the Orphans of the Greenblood singing. The Blackwater Rush seems to glow golden in the sunset light, and Rhaenys imagines Mother herself rising from the tides to smash against the walls of Kings Landing. “Justice for King Aemon and Queen Shireen!” she yells down to the armies below. “And justice for Princess Elia Martell!”

The armies scream, the royalists scream, the dragons and river scream, and then there is war. Three dozen scorpions fix the dragons in their targets and fire. Rhaenys barrels to the left, dodging the first volley of bolts. Nyserix takes a bolt through the leather of her right wing and she screams a torrent of black-red fire. Lysella and Rhaelaxes swoop up, then dive bomb the city walls and torch a host of scorpions. Rhaenys stays low, stays barreling left and right so that they cannot fire directly at her. Mooncatcher sets fire to another group of scorpions and Nyserix to the entire south-facing wall of Kings Landing. With the heat and wind of the flames, some of the royalists abandon their posts. Good. The very last scorpion remaining fires a bolt at Mooncatcher, who erupts violet flames. The bolt is but ash splattering against dragon scales by the time it crosses the distance to Mooncatcher’s heart. For good measure, Rhaenys yells _“dracarys”_ and torches the quickly abandoned scorpion anyway.

They fly towards the Sept of Baelor where the High Septon waits. Below, Flea Bottom is on fire, and Rhaenys doesn’t know why; did someone’s cache of wildfire explode during the siege? She prays that no one was caught in those green flames. Suddenly, a wraith of emerald fire howls and flies towards Rhaenys, Moncatcher banks a hard left, narrowly missing what appears to be—a wildfire _demon?!_ Rhaenys searches the skies with wide eyes and from the Sept of Baelor comes a torrent of these terrible twisting creatures, shadow and smoke illuminated by the wildfire in their bones. Mooncatcher burns one and it does nothing, it makes it grow larger! _Fuck!_

“This is my sister and Melisandre’s doing!” Lysella screams over the wind. “They’re down there, I know it!”

Nyserix is singed by a passing fire demon on her injured wing; she is forced to retreat so that Daenerys can seek aid from the Orphans and their waters. Rhaenys yells at Lysella to attack the Sept’s balconies where the fire demons jump from. Dreamfyre and Mooncatcher dare to sweep close along the Sept, setting fire to the river-facing side of the building. Rhaenys spies a flurry of demons heading upwards and pulls away. But wait, they aren’t flying towards her, why are they—they’re aiming for—

Wildfire explodes and Rhaenys shields her eyes. A terrible screech rends the air, and she watches in horror as Rhaelaxes falls towards the ground, covered in emerald flames. The little figure of Lysella, wreathed in fire, separates from her dragon. _“No!”_ She calls upon the Blackwater, she begs to rise and to catch Rhaelaxes and Lysella before they crash into the remnants of Flea Bottom. Arianne hears her desperate plea and aids her, all of the Orphans do and the river rises in a great curve. The fallen dragon is met halfway by water, and the flames are extinguished; Rhaelaxes and Lysella flow along the water to rest on a riverbank outside of the city.

Rhaenys cannot see what became of her sister, but through the water she can smell her, taste her. And all she smells and tastes is blood, and burnt flesh, and abject agony. Her vision flares red. Visenya would strike down her own twin sister, her family! She would doom her to a terrible death that Elia Martell herself suffered!

**_MURDERER!_** , the very air itself shrieks, and she nearly vibrates to pieces from the surging wrath in Mooncatcher. Yes, she comforts her dragon, yes they shall avenge their sisters! They will not stand for this! Rhaenys swoops low, twisting and barreling through the air. The Sept of Baelow grows closer, closer, she can imagine through Mooncatcher’s eyes where to strike that insufferable marble and crystal until all remains is ash.

Both Rhaenys and Mooncatcher scream, and violet dragonfire scorches a wicked path up the Sept’s marble gardens to its main doors. Mooncatcher does not stop screaming, does not stop burning, and they fly up in a curving path that spreads their fire straight up the fluted columns to melt at the roof. The people inside scream and Rhaenys doesn’t care. How much misery has this one miserable sept given her and her family? The edicts against her water witchcraft, denouncing her as a godless usurper and calling for her and her husband’s heads, setting her beloved little sister on fire!

No more! No more Sept of Baelor, no more High Septon, no more Melisandre! No more of Visenya’s madness! Rhaenys shall not suffer to bear any more hurts against her! She throws her head back, she screams her pain as Mooncatcher destroys the Sept. No more! They can call her Rhaenyra, they can call her Maegor, they can call her whatever they’d like from the seven hells!

Soon, the entire Sept is naught but fire. The bells ring and toll chaos and people scream before the fire torches their bones to ash and Rhaenys never stops screaming. Daenerys and Nyserix help her, through the black-red and violet-blue smoke she sees tears on Daenerys’s red face. Tears that match her own, judging from the wetness dripping off her chin. Beneath them is a sea of flames, Visenya’s Hill crowned in dragonfire. Flea Bottom still burns emerald, and the fires shall spread to consume all of Kings Landing. Rhaenys wonders if she should let it. Burn down the entire fucking city, see if she cares! For eight-and-ten years she was a prisoner here, she was miserable and alone with not even the bones of Mama and Aegon to bring her comfort! Why should she save it?!

But then she sees the river swelling out of its banks to drown the fire, to soothe it to sleep with the songs sung by all the Dornish witches at the edge of Kings Landing. Rhaenys’s rage transforms into despair. Will she ever be free of this pain? All her life she’s been in pain because of Rhaegar and the Red Keep and Kings Landing, only after marrying Robb did she find peace. Peace in her husband’s arms, and in her children’s faces, in her good family and the North. In the Mother Rhoyne.

Peace, she wants _peace._ Burning down all Kings Landing and rendering near a million people homeless shall not give her peace. She raises her hands and helps the river flow, up and up the streets to engulf the burning hill and smother the last of the Sept. When the water retreats, there is only rubble, ash mixing into mud. Rhaenys lands in the blight and searches for bodies. She finds remnants of the High Septon’s crown, she finds a hexagon necklace with a cracked ruby at its center…she finds Visenya. Visenya, who still draws breath.

She is badly burnt, the entire right side of her body reduced to weeping red ruin and all the hair on her head singed off and her left arm impaled by shards of red glass. She stares up at Rhaenys with her one indigo eye, and grins with bloodied teeth. “Sister,” she croaks. “I’m glad to see you again. Our Lord of Light has such marvelous purpose for you.”

Rhaenys narrows her eyes and clenches her fists. Her stomach roils with hate and nausea and despair, to see her sister reduced to…this. “If Lysella is dead because of you and that red witch, your lord cannot save you,” she promises. She wraps Visenya in her cloak, and carries her onto Mooncatcher’s back. How small and diminished Visenya seems, swaddled like some putrid infant. “If Lysella lives, your fate shall be decided by her.”

“My fate is that of humanity’s,” Visenya gurgles.

Rhaenys tells her to be silent. No more fucking prophecies today! She flies back to her camp and hands Visenya off to the healer’s tent. The healers stare at her in horror, and Rhaenys sighs. “Has anyone retrieved my sister the Princess Lysella and her dragon? Does she live?”

“She lives,” the head healer says. She motions at a tent farther south, where Rhaenys spies Rhaelaxes writhing and Daenerys giving her dragon-child comfort. But the healer’s face is grim. “We will do everything in our power to heal her, and we believe we can save her face. But I fear that there’s incredible damage.”

“How bad?”

The healer motions at Visenya. “This is a mercy in comparison,” she says, and Rhaenys wants to vomit. Thankfully there is an empty chamber pot so Rhaenys can gracefully throw up instead of vomiting all over the ground. The healer offers her a cleaning stick, paste and salt-water to wash her mouth with, as well as a basin of hot water and plain soap to clean her face, neck and hands. She tuts at Rhaenys’s stomach. “Give that babe two more moons and it will drop right onto the floor. You ought to be leading the battle from the command tents, my lady.”

Rhaenys gives her a little bow. “When my brother’s crown is firmly on his head, I can rest. Please save my sisters.”

She finds Robb and clings to him. She babbles everything, from the burning of the Sept to Lysella and Visenya’s fates. He brushes errant ashes from her hair and whispers his thanks to the gods old and new and across the seas for keeping her safe. Rhaenys rests her cheek against his shoulder. “We must go to the Red Keep now,” she says. The rage from before that spurred her to burn down the Sept rises again, boiling and vicious and so, so close to being satisfied. “He’s in there with Lyanna. This finally ends today.”

He cups her face with his hands. “Are you ready for this?”

“I am ready for Elia Martell to finally see justice. She, Aegon, Lysella, and myself, and every other person those two have hurt.” She presses a quick kiss to his nose, just to see him scrunch it up like Alia. “Will you stand by me?”

“Always.”

Viserys and Asha eagerly accept her offer to take them to the Red Keep with her, and Oberyn thrums with repressed energy. “If your mother could see you now,” he murmurs and brushes his thumb over Rhaenys’s cheek. “The queen she never got to be, even if your crown is a crown of Northern roses.” He pauses, then grins. “She shall have justice today. I think you understand how long I’ve been waiting for this.”

She does. The people that fly with her to the Red Keep—Robb, Oberyn, Viserys, Asha, and Daenerys—know uniquely this feeling of seeking justice, vengeance, peace. And they will see it gained, no matter their actions.

Rhaenys lands hard at the gates of the Red Keep, and screams atop Mooncatcher’s back, “Rhaegar Targaryen! Come out and die!”

Oberyn cackles, and Robb squeezes her tight. Rhaenys knows the terrible irony of her echoed words. It seems that the Kingsguard assembled at the gates know too, as Ser Barristan looks ready to surrender his sword right then and there. Ser Arthur steps forward and asks, “Is it true then? Will you become both a kingslayer and a kinslayer today?”

“Mayhaps,” she tells him. He flinches as if struck in the face. She looks down over all the white cloaks in her way. “But is it true then, loyal sers of the Kingsguard? If he wins today, will you stand aside as he murders my brother and husband, my uncles and aunts? Will you stand guard as he rapes his bastards into me, over the corpses of my own children?” She narrows her eyes. “If this be true, then draw your swords. Die for his sake if you so desire.”

“…no.” Ser Barristan throws down his sword and tears off his cloak. The other Kingsguard whip their heads towards him in shock, and Rhaenys herself raises her eyebrows to her hairline. “For far too long have I abandoned my knightly vows for the sake of loyalty. I did nothing as queens were raped, as children were poisoned by their own fathers. I can no longer bear that sick burden. Call me a craven if you so like, but it must end now.”

“Craven!” the Kingsguard yell at him. And when Ser Arthur falls to his knees and lets Dawn clatter to the ground, they draw their swords. “Traitors and false brothers, both of you! Stand and fight—”

Nyserix screams a torrent of black-red fire over their heads. Sers Barristan and Arthur run for their lives as the dragons lose their temper and scorch the men before them. Rhaelaxes still cries out in the distance, and the sound moves the dragons to agony, agony that Rhaenys can feel in her bond and her soul. By the time their fit of temper passes, all that remains of the Kingsguard is ash and melted steel. Daenerys sneers at the two survivors, “Surrender yourselves to our men, and be grateful.” Then they take to the sky and all is fire and blood.

The castle falls quickly with two furious dragons blasting apart the remains of blighted and cursed stone. The Blackwarer Rush surges up to meet the falling stone and sucks it all way down to the bay at the horizon. By the end of their wrath, only the throne room remains, as well as parts of the Maidenvault and Maegor’s Holdfast. Rhaenys wonders if her Targaryen ancestors would weep to see their castle destroyed, or if they would cheer on the removal of a rotted family branch. Her Martell ancestors certainly have no reason to weep today!

And in the throne room, on the Iron Throne, there they find Rhaegar and Lyanna and their Aegon. The babe is weeping, perhaps from the way Lyanna clutches him to her breast as if Rhaenys will dash his little head on the wall. Lyanna’s eyes are bright with tears and hatred. Rhaegar…Rhaegar just stares at her like he’s staring into the sun. Entirely blinded to the truth of his situation.

“I will ask you again,” Rhaenys says. Mooncatcher and Nyserix hiss at her back. “Come out, and die. I promise I will be merciful to your son.”

Lyanna staggers to her feet. And Lyanna’s stomach is rounded. Rhaenys clenches her fists. Oh, by the Seven and the Mother and all the gods old and across the seas—godsdamn Lyanna to hell! She can’t execute a pregnant woman, how many times will Lyanna slink her way out of justice for Mama?!

“Mercy,” Lyanna spits at her. “Mercy for my little babe? The second I hand him to you, you will have him burned alive! Just like your mother’s brat! Will you enjoy hearing your own brother cry out and die? I bet you will!”

Rhaenys’s heart breaks a final time. Then she inhales, exhales, and says, “How dare you accuse me of something so vile. You were my stepmother since I was a girl of three years, you taught me how to wield a bow and how to sew a shirt. How dare you sit there on that stolen throne and put your fears into my mouth! Me, when I’ve done nothing but tried to please you! Keep you happy and content!” Rhaenys slashes down with her arm and the river outside groans. “Well so be it then! Think what you will of me, _stepmother,_ but I am not the only one who demands their pound of flesh today! Robb! Uncles! Aunt!” She turns to Robb, Oberyn, Viserys, and Asha. “If you have anything to act upon, now is your chance!”

Oberyn laughs and drops his spear to the ground. Lyanna screams as he, Viserys and Asha charge towards the throne. Asha is the one to pull her by her hair down from the high dais. Rhaenys takes a screaming Aegon from her arms while Oberyn and Viserys make good on their hatred towards Rhaegar. Kicking, punching, stomping, tearing—Rhaegar tries to claw his way away from his reckoning but Daenerys doesn’t lift a finger to help him. Neither does Rhaenys, who crouches down by Lyanna and hisses, “Do you see that? That is the justice that your husband will face—the justice you will face if you don’t surrender yourself right here and now. Do you think Aemon will go out of his way to save you after to tried to kill your own son? Do you think he will care about that child in your belly?”

Aemon will care though, and so does Rhaenys. But that doesn’t mean Lyanna needs to know. Robb finally stalks forward, his face a ruin of unleashed hate, and punches three of Rhaegar’s teeth out. Asha wrenches Lyanna’s arms and she screams. Rhaenys tuts and rubs soothing circles on Aegon’s back. “Your son will be well cared for, I assure you. He will be renamed, of course. He will be…Baelor. Baelor after the blessed septon, and he will be raised in Sunspear before he goes into the sept there. A happy life, a quiet life, an unknown life. More than you can give him.”

Lyanna cries, “Do not hurt him! Please! I’ll do anything, just don’t—”

“You heard her,” Asha says. She presses her foot into Lyanna’s back and presses down. _“Surrender!”_ Lyanna screams in pain. “ _Do it!_ Prince Oberyn shall give you far less regard, and my patience is running out!” Lyanna surrenders, shuddering and sobbing, and Asha hog ties her with strips torn from Lyanna’s skirts. Asha pants, her face flushed, then she yells and goes to help Viserys and Oberyn beat Rhaegar to a bloody pulp.

Rhaenys and Daenerys watch. Daenerys whispers, “I saw Sella in her tent. The maesters will save her eye and face, I’m sure of it. But her whole left side, her _arm_ …”

“Don’t think of it,” Rhaenys whispers in return. “Think of nothing but right now.” The newly christened Baelor sniffles and she kisses his forehead. “We will finally see justice done, for all of us.”

Eventually the four wear themselves out. Somehow, Rhaegar still clings to life—did they spare his final breath for Rhaenys? How considerate of them. She looks down at Rhaegar, looks right through him to the filthy marrow of his soul, and relaxes. He is a broken man with a broken crown and a broken family. Everything, from his bones to his teeth to his power, is shattered and made into dust. How can he possibly hurt her anymore? She hands Baelor to Daenerys. Then she leans over him and asks gently, “Did you truly think this would work? Did you truly think you could try and take my loved ones away from me, and live?” She doesn’t expect an answer; he cannot give her one.

Oberyn steps closer. “Say the word, niece, and he dies here right now.” Viserys and Asha also step closer, and in all three sets of eyes the same darkness glitters like dragonglass. Just one word, and they shall fall upon him and savage him to death, they shall be the greatest kingslayers ever to have lived. Robb holds her hand with his bloodied one. Just one word, just one.

But Rhaenys merely shakes her head. She takes a step back. “From ashes to ashes, from bone to bone—Rhaegar Targaryen shall meet his fate here today, ‘tis true. But do not stain your hands on his behalf.” She smiles, faint as dawn in a Northern winter. “He is unworthy of such regard.”

Mooncatcher and Nyserix rumble, their internal furnaces roiling with dragonfire. Rhaelaxes crawls her way into the throne room, bleeding and burnt but still alive, still hissing and snapping and wild with wrath. Oberyn’s mouth opens in surprise, then he grins in savage understanding. So do Viserys, and Asha, and Daenerys, and Robb. They all step back as the dragons creep forward, as the heat in the room rises from their shuddering breaths. Lyanna muffles her screams into her gag as Asha drags her towards the door. Rhaegar gapes at the faces of dragons larger than even Balerion the Black Dread, dragons bound and devoted to the lives he tried to destroy. The remaining glass in the shattered windows creak and shadows play on the ground, and Rhaegar starts begging.

He begs for mercy. He begs for clemency. He begs for a quicker death. “Rhaenys!” he cries with his bloodied mouth as Rhaenys walks backwards out of the room. “Rhaenys, please! Do not do this! I love you, I’ve always loved you!”

The Iron Throne is a mirage in the billowing steam. Condensation builds onto the remaining window shards and bleeds onto the floor. One by one the others leave, Robb the last with one quick kiss to her lips. She is alone with Rhaegar, he trapped by dragons and she at the door. It is mercifully quiet in here, even with his begging and the snarling of dragons. Perhaps the quiet is in her heart, from knowing this is the end. She feels peace settle over her shoulders, like Mama laying a cloak on her shadow. “I loved you once,” she tells him. “You were my father, and I loved you—”

“Rhaenys, please! _Elia!”_

“—but you never loved me, and you never loved my mother.” She smiles down on him, with the very last of the sunlight illuminating behind her and cast darkness over her face. She can see her reflection in Rhaegar’s eyes, and her own eyes are as black and fathomless as Mama and the Mother. She speaks for them both. “You never wanted us, you wanted your prophecies. You wanted dragons. So rejoice: _here be dragons.”_

Then she shuts the door behind her.

Later, they rebuild Kings Landing, with the cowed royalists kept under heavy watch and heavy labor. The remnants of the Sept of Baelor are cleared, and the surviving crystal and marble either repurposed or collected to be sold. The foundation stones are used to rebuild Flea Bottom, which burnt down in its entirety. No more rickety wooden buildings insulated with shit—Rhaenys envisions sturdy brick rowhouses and townhomes, perhaps spartan in design but efficient and clean. She wants them to be _clean_ , she cannot stand the stench of shit and ash and burnt flesh clinging to the muck in the gutters! And an entirely new sewer system while they are at it; Daenerys flies a host of architects from Oldtown to oversee the rebuilding. She knows their money is better spent on stocking up for the coming war…but she is tired of preparing for war. She wants to heal for once, and repair what has been broken.

Lysella lives, as does Visenya, but the damage is catastrophic. Rhaenys weeps at Lysella’s bedside. The left side of her face is a sickly pale pink beneath the layers of wet gauze, the healing burn as fragile as tissue paper. And the burns twist down her neck, down her chest and legs and her arm—oh gods, but her _arm._ Her arm is a gnarled twisted ruin of half-melted muscle and bone. Rhaenys asks the healers if they should amputate it and they say they are unsure if she would survive the shock of it. But then again, perhaps she won’t survive the shock of keeping it. In a moment of lucid awareness, a week after the Battle of Kings Landing, Lysella tells her, “Just cut it off. I can’t feel anything below my shoulder.” The arm twitches and Lysella stares at with a hollow gaze. “It’s useless now.”

She kisses her right temple, where some silver-gold hair still remains. “I’ll tell the healers about your wishes.” She pauses. “Sella, about Visenya…she still lives.” Lysella inhales sharply. “Don’t think of her now, focus on your own healing. But when the time comes, you may choose her fate.”

Lysella’s right eye fills with tears, and her burned left eye glazes over. “Thank you,” she whispers, and Rhaenys fills her head with gentle stories about Alia’s continued healing in the North until Lysella falls asleep dreaming of direwolves and heather.

The Red Keep is cleared away, leaving Aegon’s Hill bare until a temporary castle is raised with the scattered pale red stone and marble. When everything is sorted, a castle to rival Winterfell or Casterly Rock shall reside there. But for now, it is enough.

When Aemon and Shireen arrive with Dreamfyre and Ghost, still pale and thin from their trials but finally, finally healthy again, this is how they find Kings Landing. There is still the smell of ash and smoke painted against some of the older buildings, but the area formerly known as Flea Bottom is as respectable as any neighborhood in Braavos or Oldtown. Visenya’s Hill is crowned not by a sept but by a great outdoor kitchen and rows of healer’s tents. The Red Keep is now a little keep, of mismatching stone and crystal. And within, the original Iron Throne is no more.

Rhaenys greets them by the new throne. Tobho Mott, the fantastically skilled Qohorik blacksmith who offered his services, reshaped the Iron Throne from a seat of imposing terror into something more befitting a king or queen confident in their own rule. Every House of Westeros has their sigil emblazoned into the curving metal throne, the Great Houses featuring near the top. The center is dominated by a great three-headed dragon. There are no intimidating and dangerous spikes, no jagged edges or jarring shadows. It is smooth, it is simple, and they who sit upon it shall be the one commanding respect. A slightly smaller clone is at its side, for the king or ruling queen’s consort.

Rhaenys curtsies deeply to Aemon and Shireen, as do everyone else in attendance. Perhaps every great lord and lady of Westeros is here in this little keep. Aemon bids her to rise, and she bids them both to take their seats upon the throne. Viserys brings out two crowns on velvet padding. They are crowns of Valyrian steel, forged with remnants of the original Iron Throne within. Seven spires for seven kingdoms; nine glittering precious stones for the nine regions of Westeros. A grander version of Jaehaerys and Alysanne’s crowns, and more somber.

Rhaenys crowns Aemon and Shireen, with Viserys and Robb standing at their right; with Daenerys standing and a gauze-covered Lysella sitting at their left. Ghost rests his head on Aemon's lap and he runs his fingers through the white fur; Dreamfyre casts iridescent shadows through the windows in the throne room. When both are seated and crowned, Rhaenys calls out to the assembled court, “All hail King Aemon of House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm! All hail Queen Shireen of Houses Baratheon and Targaryen, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, Light of the South! Long may they reign!”

And so they hail. Their voices rise high against the keep’s ceilings and flow down Aegon’s Hill to meld with the cheering of the smallfolk.

Hail King Aemon, the Avenged Dragon with a legendary direwolf at his side.

Hail Queen Shireen, the Stormbreak Queen and Dreamfyre’s rider in her own right.

And hail Lady Rhaenys Stark, Princess Targaryen, Lady Witch of Winterfell, Rhaenyra Redeemed and the Sun’s Reckoning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RHAEGAR IS DEAD EVERYONE, CHAMPAGNE IS ON ME
> 
> Just as Rhaenys feared, she had to be Rhaenyra 2.0 (and a bit of Maegor) for Aemon’s sake. But thankfully, everyone was very quickly reminded how the Targaryens first conquered Westeros, and at least she did everything she could to minimize civilian casualties. Aemon has taken the throne with his siblings and aunt’s support, and the support of many lords in the realm. By far he is on track to being a better king than Rhaegar. It was a hard-won fight, and they deserve their victory.
> 
> Press F to pay respects for Lysella, who got 60% of her body burned by wildfire thanks to her twin sister and her twin sister’s crazy mentor. She might lose her arm (she definitely needs that arm amputated if we’re being honest), but she won’t her spirit! She’ll need that spirit to strange Visenya lmao
> 
> I can’t kill Lyanna until Aemon gets to have his final words with her, so she gets a stay of execution…for now. Justice will be served, that I promise you.
> 
> That was a bit of a nightmare to rewrite since I had to start over from scratch and bridge between Ch 13 and the chapter where the rewrites should end, but I think it came out ok. If I have to write one more battle scene than the one in my outline, I might actually perish.
> 
> Speaking of the Long Night, it’s only a couple chapters away. I can’t believe we’re nearing the end of this story, I never thought I’d be able to finish something on this scale! Already my word document is at 120,000+ words (which is longer than the third Harry Potter book) and I haven’t fleshed out the outlines of the two chapters yet. This is the longest thing I’ve ever written, I’m pretty proud of myself not gonna lie lol


	18. The Preparations

Rhaenys rocks Beron, shushing the weeping babe. He is fed and changed and is merely too tired to do much other than cry. Geralt is already sleeping in Robb’s arms, fingers still curled around Robb’s shirt. The moon outside the thick windows illuminate the floor in quiet refractions, pale and pensive like Rhaenys’s thoughts.

Winterfell and the winter town are swollen with refugees from the northernmost villages and towns and holdfasts. Too many monsters lurk in the mountains and woods now, too many for even five fonts of dragonfire to root out. The air is colder, the ground less pliable, and Rhaenys feels in her bones that winter is coming. It’s nearly here, and Aemon’s rule is still too young and too fragile.

Even with dragonfire support, and the spectacular coup of Kings Landing, the reforged Iron Throne sits upon eggshells. Aemon is not Rhaegar, his charred memory still stinking in the noses of the Westerosi lords. But the smallfolk and the lords still see Rhaegar in Aemon’s stoic nature, in his melancholy, in the way he speaks about the coming armies of the dead. Aerys was mad, Rhaegar is mad, so what about Aemon? Wylla receives letters from capricious lords beseeching Rhaenys to take the throne. And when Rhaenys responds with a firm and bold-lettered no, those lords seek out others. Viserys. Renly, a former acolyte at Oldtown who took up the mantle of Lord Baratheon when Shireen asked. The Blackfyres scattered to the winds in Essos.

_“The blood of the she-wolf is treacherous and thin,”_ the letter from a Stormlander upon Rhaenys’s desk reads in the moonlight. She turns away from it, but she can still read its lines. _“Is the blood of the Sun of Dorne also as weak? Perhaps a Blackfyre bride for your son would fix any weakness, or perhaps a Blackfyre king to reign over your insufferable indecisiveness.”_

“Rhae,” Robb murmurs from his chair, his eyes still fixed upon Geralt’s sleeping face and the wisps of silver upon his downy head. “You must rest, your anxiety is keeping Beron awake.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault that he’s crying?” Rhaenys doesn’t want to yell at Robb. Her heart is shredded from stress and her fear of the Long Night. She already bites her tongue until it bleeds so that she doesn’t lose her temper whenever Alia whines about dinner and the babes cries for the sake of crying and the people under her protection demand more action and answers for a battle they are still preparing for. Rhaenys squeezes her eyes shut, rocking Beron harder. His cries grate on her heart like shredding ginger for her tea. “Suppose that one of those incessantly complaining black brothers can come and calm him?” Hysteria spikes in her voice. “Better he be a nursemaid than bitch another godsdamned second about taking lessons from a spearwife!”

Robb sets Geralt in his cradle, and gently takes Beron from her arms. The separation from her babe’s warmth brings Rhaenys to silent, heaving tears. Can she not even hold her children without being so useless?! “My love,” he whispers and presses his hand to her cheek. “You must relax. Let me care for Beron, you should go to bed.”

“I can’t,” Rhaenys shakes her head. Hair falls loose from her sloppy braids and she pushes them back in irritation. The water in the castle walls churns with her building upset. “I’m still coordinating with lords over the evacuation of the North. The Manderlys report that the sea is getting choppier, so it may have to be an overland evacuation. And that is far less safe and secure when you have rapers and brigands taking the opportunity to raid women and children and the infirm. How am I supposed to sleep when every second is a second lost to the coming wars?”

Robb calls for a nursery maid to care for the babes and leads Rhaenys out of the claustrophobic nursery into the courtyard. He asks for a tankard of the cook’s best mulled honey milk from a passing servant, his arms still wrap around her as if she will collapse again. The thought is a tempting one, to lie down and die before the undead come for her. The air chills her to the bone despite her gown’s three layers of wool and double-lined petticoats. She shivers and cries out for Mooncatcher’s warmth in their bond. Robb says, “Unburden yourself, my love. What do you worry about most?”

Rhaenys inhales the freezing air and exhales the clarity to brings to her frazzled mind. They find Mooncatcher lying beneath the stars and sit against her side, with Robb’s cloak spread upon the ground beneath them and the tankard of honey milk on Robb’s free side. Rhaenys drinks a full steaming cup, sighing with bliss from the sweetness and spices burning down her throat. She rests against the comforting furnace that is her dragon’s stomach, and she counts upon her fingers. “I worry that we are not prepared to fight against the Night King. I worry that factions within the armies will splinter and we will not be a unified front. I worry that someone will assassinate Aemon. I worry that thousands of people will die if we cannot get them to Dorne safely. I worry I will miscarry this babe and we’ll have to bury it by Rickon. I worry that I will die in childbirth. I worry that the monsters roaming this continent will kill those people. I worry that we will lose the war and the survivors in Dorne will not be able to get elsewhere. I worry that Alia, Beron and Geralt are going to die bloody deaths and I won’t be able to do a thing about it.” She sniffles and wipes her eyes. “And I worry that we have no time left, and I wasted most of my life being miserable in a gilded cage, and it makes me bitter.”

Robb kisses her hands. “There are all valid things to worry about. But you need to trust that Aemon, Dany and Sella, everyone will be able to help you.” Robb intertwines their fingers, hers shaking and his tipped with gauze. How many runes has he carved with his own blood on countless swords and suits of armor so that they match the swords brought by the Thenns and may strike down the undead? He, Randa and Ysabel won’t have fingerprints by the time they’re finished; yet another sorrow on Rhaenys’s heart. He squeezes their hands. “Dany is married to Jonnel and the Vale’s knights are cooperating with the Free Folk. The new Lord Renly is coordinating with Aemon’s soldiers at Dragonstone to mine dragonglass and silver into weapons. Viserys is on his way with the _Jolly Kraken_ to help the Northern, Dornish and Royal Fleets convey people to Dorne safely. We have dragons, and they have their riders.”

“That they do,” Rhaenys concedes.

“As for our child,” Robb says and rests his hands on Rhaenys’s belly, “have faith in your own strength. You’ve given me three living, healthy, and beautiful children already. Do not doubt yourself for a fourth.” He kisses her sweetly. Mooncatcher huffs steam that warms their bodies and soothes the savage ache in her shoulder and the back of her neck. To the north, Rhaelaxes rides amongst the stars with Lysella upon her back.

Lysella never returned to the Red Keep after Aemon’s coronation. Instead, Lysella and Daenerys fly between the various kingdoms coordinating with its lords and running the royal propaganda machine and intimidating Rhaegar’s remaining loyalists into compliance. Let them all see their Targaryen princesses on dragonback commanding them to harvest their crops and prepare for war. It is far more compelling than the ravens of a king they’ve only met once before.

Right now, she’s come to Winterfell, seeing to her niece and nephews and helping in the kitchens and watching Rhaelaxes’s plumes of green and bronze. It seems to give her comfort, whenever her mind edges too close to all the hurt weighing her little sister down. Some people still stare at the pink and red burns splashing down Lysella’s left side and her Valyrian steel prosthetic arm, so beautifully crafted by Master Mott. Some people still whisper about Visenya rotting in a dungeon waiting for death. But Rhaenys will keep her word. She will not touch Visenya until Lysella herself decides her fate. She won’t take that away from the woman who has already lost so much.

As if called to Rhaenys by her thoughts, Rhaelaxes and Lysella touch down in front of them. Lysella smiles, dressed in Northern furs with a distinctly sea-green scarf. She did dance with Lord Monford at dinner last night, to the tune of Monterys and Laena trying their hand at a harp. Dear Monty and Laena seem to adore Lysella, picking posies from Winterfell’s glasshouses for her and never shying away from Lysella’s prosthetic arm. And Monford, much like dear Aurane, is conscientious and rather gallant to his secret lady love—how many times has Rhaenys spied Lysella sighing over a little love letter tucked into her pockets? Lysella blushes to see Rhaenys’s eyes fixed on her scarf, and Rhaenys winks at her; she will torment her little sister another day. It will take a little while to draw up the necessary documents and dowry for her marriage anyway. “Another group of refugees is coming,” Lysella tells them. “I saw them from upon Rhaelaxes, they seem rather worse for wear.” She pauses, then adds in her prim, delicate voice, “There is a man of interest among them, an old man who has seen much in his years. If you permit, I’d like to see him placed in some means of comfort.”

Rhaenys allots the refugees rooms in her mental record of Winterfell. Thank the gods for Brandon the Builder and his desire to fill Winterfell with near a hundred empty apartments, not counting the guest house! Were it not for his grandiose foresight, her own confinement chambers would be in the winter town! Oh gods, her babe is coming on the eve of war. She will give birth at the end of this moon, that much is already certain. Rhaenys drinks more of the milk, repeating the river song in the back of her mind. If she tries hard enough, her internal voice becomes Mama’s, and Mama always soothes her when she is ready to shatter.

Lysella comes to sit by her side and rests her silver-gold head on her shoulder. “Have you thought of what your babe will look like? A potato, perhaps?” Robb snorts and she shrugs unrepentantly. “Newborn babes all look like those strange smushed-face creatures from far Essos that nobles like to keep for pets. But far less yapping.” Rhaenys imagines Beron and Geralt growling and barking like an overstuffed lady’s dog, and she giggles. Lysella smiles, soft and sad. “There we are, a smile. I know you’re tired of hearing it, but you must rest, Rhaenys. The world will not collapse if you take a moment to ease yourself.”

Rhaenys stares up at the sky. It’s been years, but she is still entranced by how many stars there are, how many colors. It truly does look like her wedding dress, as Robb described when they first admitted their love for each other. But she is no longer that girl in a starlight wedding dress; she will never be so again. Rhaenys sniffles. “Then why does it feel like I will let everyone die if I stop?”

Robb and Lysella say nothing as she bursts into tears, and Mooncatcher curls around them until they are surrounded by violet, blue and white scales. She radiates heat and calm, soothing Rhaenys into half a trance. Eventually her sobs taper off, and only quiet tears trickle from the corners of her eyes. She lies with her head in Robb’s lap and her hand entwined with Lysella’s. Thanks to genius gear wheels and pulleys built within the arm that attach directly to the surviving nerves in her sister’s arm socket—thanks to the magic that Master Mott will never explain to anyone else unless they too can craft Valyrian steel—Lysella’s prosthetic arm moves not with physical manipulation but with Lysella’s own natural intent. Slower and less accurately than her right arm, but it is far more than anyone could have hoped for, more than Rhaenys could have dreamed for when Lysella’s gnarled ruin had to be cut from her shoulder. And in thanks Aemon made Master Mott the kingdom’s official blacksmith.

The metal fingers interlock around Rhaenys’s own with a firm squeeze, as if Lysella is truly holding her hand. Rhaenys asks her sister, “What do you think, Sella? Do you see us winning? I don’t…I don’t think we will.”

Lysella kisses her palm. “I never claimed to see into the future, that was all Sen—that was all _her._ But I think that you’re smart, and you’ve been preparing for years, and you’re the strongest woman I know. I think we’ll be ok.”

Later, when Lysella returns to her own rooms and the air is even colder, Robb carries Rhaenys to the river. She dips her hands into its blessed warmth, and she cleans her tear-sticky face. She prays to the Mother in Rhoynish, while Robb sits by her side and prays to the old gods in the Old Tongue. Together their languages seem an unearthly ballad, their sounds melding and refracting in the moonlight. Rhaenys lets her vision blur, and sees ten thousand ships sailing to Dorne; a kraken glimmering with deathly lights pulling people underwater; Alia riding through the godswood on a direwolf with winter roses and primroses in her hair; Beron and Geralt sparring with shining silver swords; a woman with sunlight hair and fathomless black eyes in a river of gold; and Mama cradling Rhaenys’s face, telling her to not be afraid.

She opens her eyes and tells Robb, “Come lie in bed with me.” She cannot bring herself to sleep truly, but with their limbs entwined in their great comfortable bed and his lips against hers, she can find some peace.

Branda joins Rhaenys’s sewing circle with Cathryn on her lap. The babe is far less freckled than her wind-swept mother, but she’s already large and hearty with Branda’s gray eyes and Ned’s blonde hair. She may indeed rule Sea Dragon Point’s castle keep, or perhaps the city itself. Branda confesses her fears about her future fertility as her courses have yet to return with any consistency, and Rhaenys pats her hand. “You nurse her, don’t you? That could be the cause of it, or stress from this upcoming war and the one before it. At any case, I recommend at least three years between Cathy and any siblings you may wish for her.” Rhaenys glares at her belly, round like a great winter melon. “I don’t regret this babe, but the timing leaves much to be desired.”

Branda eventually smiles. “You’re right. And of course, ‘tis no terrible thing to have Cathy by the future Lady of Sea Dragon Point if that’s what shall be. Not with her aunt at her back, and Neddie ready to tear arrogant lordlings a new shithole.” Rhaenys chokes on a laugh, and Cathryn squeals in infant excitement.

Ned comes to visit and give Rhaenys more reports about the evacuation. He covers his wife with as many kisses as her freckles, and their Cathryn. Rhaenys also kisses her niece’s cheek and coos that one day she’ll be as strong and tall as her parents. She doesn’t say that she doubts they will live to see it.

Ygritte offers to take on more responsibilities in handling the Free Folk with Mance Rayder, and Rhaenys is eternally grateful for her. No matter what happened or didn’t happen with Aemon, Ygritte is a proficient healer and archer, and may yet become a good friend. She even helps Rhaenys adjust her form so that she may fire more arrows rapidly. “If only there was no need for a Wall at all,” Rhaenys sighs. “No Others, no terrible hatred between peoples—then you could’ve been my lady companion, with free reign to shoot down the lords who seek to give me trouble.”

She grins with her straight white teeth. “Ah, you’re making me blush, my ladyship. Don’t let the Lord Stark know, lest you mean an invitation for me to steal you away.” Rhaenys giggles and tells Ygritte that if there is be any stealing of Targaryen royalty, she can take it up with the infamous Lady Krakenstone herself. Ygritte leaves to help Mance keep order, yelling at a group of Free Folk to “get yer head outta yer arses, ye think the Others be residing in yer bowels?” Ah, the charms of Northern women. Rhaenys imagines Alia as a spearwife, Bodi reborn spearing men on their own egos, and loses herself to another fit of giggles.

Rhaenys receives notice from White Harbor that Arianne and a platoon of Orphans are in the North to aid the evacuation and are on their way to Winterfell. Rhaenys is ecstatic to greet Arianne and Aurane, bundled up like swaddled infants and complaining most cheerfully about the cold. Even Rosario is with them, come to bond with Alia over their mutual heath recovery and keep each other entertained while their parents deal with the possible end of Westeros. “I already have agreements with Lords Tully, Rosby, Baratheon and Tyrell for overland evacuation,” Rhaenys remarks as she checks her ledger. “But ideally most would leave to Dorne on ship, as far south as they can.”

Arianne says, “I’ve been in talks with Princess Xandala Qhoxa of Jhala in the Summer Isles. She and other princes are willing to shelter refugees if Westeros is…taken, I suppose the word is.”

Rhaenys asks Wylla, “Has the Sealord of Braavos responded to my letter?” No mere letter: Rhaenys had the autopsied corpses of the hellhounds sent to Braavos, Pentos, the Summer Isles and Maali along with instructions on how to kill such beasts that may appear in Essos and Sothoryos. So far only Pentos and the Summer Isles have responded on account of their closeness, declaring that any Westerosi refugee may find shelter in their lands. More options the better, no matter how much the realities of asking for aid make Rhaenys sick and keep her up at night. Who can shelter an entire continent from the dead?

Arianne pulls Rhaenys into her overstuffed chair. “My Saria makes the same little stress noises when she is ready to cry. What do you need?”

“The Night King’s head on a stick,” Rhaenys mumbles into Arianne’s shoulder. “And more perfume, I’m running low.”

“Dornishmen are known for their spears and their blood oranges, I’m sure we’ll think of something.” Arianne pats her head. “The Dornish forces are readying for battle, thirty thousand spears and archers and swords. We’d send the full forty, but we need a force back home to cover the refugees and maintain some order.” Rhaenys sighs with relief; Dorne, the Vale and the North’s forces are similar in strength. She knows that forty-five thousand men and women are readying for battle in her own domain alongside forty thousand Valemen, training with the Free Folk how to fight against the undead and monsters. So many dragonglass arrowheads and steel swords reworked with silver are in production, every smithy and forge in the North and Riverlands and the Vale at work. Aemon’s rarely utilized Dragonstone household is mining all the dragonglass beneath the volcano, and Master Mott is reforging unwieldy Valyrian heirlooms into battle-optimized swords. Not too many lords are happy about that, but to ask a calvary man to wield a six-foot greatsword on horseback is asking for a wasted calvary man. He is sure he can return the heirlooms to proper state once they no longer need to be used.

Almeza knocks on the door. “My lady princesses, the king, the queen and Princess Daenerys are here.”

Rhaenys raises her eyebrows. “So soon? I didn’t expect them until the next moon.” Almeza shrugs, and Rhaenys sighs, “It must be yet another problem, let us go greet our king.”

Rhaenys assembles the welcome group out of her household, and they all curtsy and bow when Aemon, Shireen and Daenerys alight from Nyserix and Dreamfyre. Robb offers his hand, and Aemon grips it. “Winterfell is yours, Your Grace.”

“Nay, it’s already in good hands as it is.” Aemon sighs and looks back at the other passengers on dragonback. Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan, who flinch away from Rhaenys’s gaze, and a slight woman—what is Lyanna doing here?! “Forgive me, but something has happened. And it was already past time for us to move operations to Winterfell anyway.”

Shireen hisses, “Oh yes, something happened indeed.” Rhaenys narrows her eyes; what did Lyanna do?

In the privacy of Robb’s solar, Aemon explains what this something is and Rhaenys resists the urge to slam her head against the desk. That conniving—Lyanna tried to escape and raise the babe in her belly in Essos with Blackfyres! Yet another godsdamed threat to the throne! Again! By the Seven and the old and the Mother and the Red, Rhaenys cannot know what she did to deserve such a vexing stepmother! Lysella takes off her scarf and outer shawl so that her gnarled burn scars are visible, and Rhaenys sees the look in Lyanna’s eyes. Pain, yes, pain and sadness for her daughter…but no guilt! Not a hint of guilt at all, the shameless woman! “You make a poor Alicent,” Rhaenys tells her. “No matter that, the Faith is ever eager for more septons and septas, or perhaps the Citadel.”

Lyanna glares at her with eyes full of tears. “Will you even wait until my babe is ready to be born until you rip him away from me?”

“That’s up to His Grace to decide, Lyanna. Press your case of mercy to the son you wanted dead.” Lyanna flinches if struck and Rhaenys asks Aemon, “What shall be done with her? I can secure a comfortable room for her here, but when we evacuate the North she will have to go somewhere.”

Aemon stares at Lyanna with such incredible sadness. Sadness, and disappointment, and resigned harshness. “Princess Arianne, does the Tower of Joy still stand in Dorne?” Lyanna gasps and Arianne confirms it remains as a monument to Rhaegar’s folly. “For now she stays here under our watch. But when the Long Night comes, I shan’t have a pregnant woman put at risk, no matter what…what she’s done to me and mine. She can go to that tower and stay there until it’s time for her to meet the sword.”

Lyanna gasps. “You would execute your own mother?”

He abruptly stands up, and slams his hands on the table. His body shakes, and Rhaenys has never seen such hatred in his eyes before, not ever since Rhaegar struck her all those years ago after the Sunglass Plot. His voice, however, is smooth and calm. “You poisoned me. You intended my death, and that of my innocent wife, and my nieces. Your step-grandchild!” He grits his teeth. “I told Rhaenys to execute you with Father, I told her to drown you—don’t look so surprised, what did you think I was going to do? Let you keep trying to kill us?” He bows his head. “I love you, Mother. Somehow, I still love you. But I love my family more.”

Lyanna’s eyes fill with tears. “I am your family.”

Lysella glares vicious and hurt at her. Aemon looks at Lysella’s burns, and sighs. “Oh Mother, family doesn’t act the way you do. What did we do to make you hate us so?” She is quiet, and he suddenly yells, “Oh, so now your tongue is still then?! Are you a craven?! Look me in the eyes and tell me why you tried to kill me!” Rhaenys’s eyes sting with tears and she wipes at them. There is so much heartbreak in her little brother, so much pain—why did Lyanna do this? How could she?

“Everything I did,” Lyanna murmurs, “I did for the good of Westeros.”

“How is _murdering me_ for the good of Westeros?!” Aemon grabs at his hair and his shoulders shake. Shireen rests her hands on those shoulders, and Aemon slowly relaxes. He asks, “What did I do, Mother? You loved me before, what changed?” The same question Rhaenys asked herself the night before Rhaegar met his fate. It is no less bitter to hear from his own lips.

Everyone holds their breath. Lyanna merely lifts her chin. Aemon sighs and waves his hand. “If you will not answer me, then I have nothing left to say to you. Be gone, Mother.”

Guards are summoned to take Lyanna to a comfortable prison, and as she’s led away she yells back at them, “It was for the good of all Westeros! You’ll see! The prophecy is true and it lives within Aegon, _my_ Aegon! I saw your death, Aemon! The Others will crush you into ice and carve your heart from your chest, you are going to die at their hands and I would’ve saved you from that!”

“Save your lies for the Stranger,” Aemon yells back. “He is the only one listening to you now!”

Rhaenys offers Aemon a hug and some brandy when she is gone, and he accepts both. Everyone plies him with brandy and wine, and for a while they all sit here in the solar drinking, talking about anything that isn’t the state of the former Targaryen matriarch. Aemon agrees that Lysella ought to marry a kind and good and incredibly rich man such as Monford, while Arianne is delighted to have a lovely woman as her good sister. Shireen grouses that she’s been suffering from a miserable stomach sickness for the past fortnight and Rhaenys recommends ginger and peppermint tea. Daenerys shocks them all with absolutely salacious gossip fresh from the Vale, with Jonnel’s sister Sharra Hardyng throwing out her husband Harry from their keep and installing her favorite Mya Stone as her new paramour after Harry fathered one too many bastards. Jonnel is not inclined to force Sharra to take back her erstwhile husband, and neither is Harry’s foster mother Anya Waynwood nor Aemon himself, so that is that.

It is a nice reprieve, to sit here by the father and laugh with her family, but there is still so much work to do.

Robb and Aemon supervise the training of soldiers, while Rhaenys, her family and ladies supervise the evacuation efforts—they all work day and night, never letting themselves think about what has happened. Not of this new pretender resting in Lyanna’s womb, not of Rhaegar’s senseless actions still tearing wounds into the country, not of anything but the fate of Westeros. When Renly comes in person with his twenty-five thousand men and provisions, he is more than ready to accept help from the wildlings. “Any aid is aid needed,” he says in his quiet voice. “I won’t have my niece rule over a kingdom filled with the undead.” The bounty of dragonglass and silver on the five ships behind his own is a godsend.

The _Jolly Kraken_ docks in White Harbor, bringing Rhaenys happiness. They’ve returned from their rounds around Essos after the Coup, and she wonders what treasures they insisted they needed to bring for the upcoming war. She hugs her uncles and aunt, and her niece. “How are you already as tall as I am? Last time I saw you I still had my pride!”

Duyen smiles and there are dimples in her cheeks; she smiles just like Viserys does. “Papa Vis made high-heeled boots so he is tallest. You can borrow them.” Both Viserys and Rhaenys pinch her for her cheek.

In the dozens of ships after the Jolly _Kraken_ are sellswords and warriors from all over the world. Rhaenys’s eyes widen as they all come to swear their weapons to fight against the Long Night. She curtseys deeply before the First Sword of Braavos; Summer Islander princes; Maalian and Ilizwenban and Eandan warrior priests setting aside their differences; a platoon of Great Moraqi marauders; the younger sister of Leng’s god-empress and her legion; fierce axmen from Far Mossovy; warrior kings from the far Empire of Tamilan draped in silks and wielding long curved swords; shadowbinders and moonsingers from Asshai-by-the-Shadow and the twin Secret Cities of Nefer…all of the known world converges at Westeros, ready to drive back the Long Night and the doom of humanity.

Something screams in the heavens. Rhaenys’s jaw drops as three Yi-Tish dragonriders swoop down and land with their dragons. Dragons entirely unlike Rhaenys’s own, as they have no wings yet slide through the sky like water rushing through a river, as they glimmer from within like raindrops illuminated by the sun. Mooncatcher screams at them, then sniffs at their curving horns. One of the Yi Tish dragonriders speaks High Valyrian and explains that Yi Ti is practically swarming with dragons, as is Assha’i and possibly even the seas. Thankfully, these dragons agree to fight for Westeros.

“There are more dragons,” Rhaenys breathes. “And these—these aren’t Valyrian dragons, what—”

Viserys just smiles at her and pinches her cheek. “Did you think we were going on pleasure sails all this time, dear niece? Did you think only Westeros as magic? All the Known World knows of the dangers ahead, thanks to you. And we will make our stand here at the source.”

She feasts with the new arrivals, letting the sounds of dozens of languages meld with spices and ale. They’ve all brought their own provisions to feed their armies, much to Rhaenys’s managerial joy, and have spared their best dishes for the Great Hall’s gathering. The more conservative Northerners eye their new allies with wariness, until Rhaenys has Oberyn regale them all with tales of the Black Fang across the world and monsters unheard of even in Westeros. Their wariness turns to grudging respect, especially when their new allies bring out their preferred drink. Much to Rhaenys’s amusement, the silly drinking game Viserys, Asha and Qarl taught them years ago is a hit and soon the Great Hall is alive with laughter and sparring and song.

Rhaenys slings her arm around Asha’s shoulder and sighs. “If only I could sail as far as you have, I could’ve met these lovely people earlier.” She pauses. “If Robb and I die and all of Westeros falls to doom, will you train my children to be pirates?” She is drunk off the joyous mood, and morbidly curious about the future. Asha raises her eyebrows and Rhaenys grins, “I need something to live for with all this shit happening. Give me ideas.”

Asha laughs and says, “Very well then, but you’ll have to pay for a larger boat!” Then Asha pulls her into an ironborn dance with far too much twirling and stomping for Rhaenys to keep up with. She laughs, and wipes her eyes, and enjoys herself. At the end of the feast, Aemon stands before the crowds with a glowing Shireen and declares, “I have an announcement to make! My fair queen and I are expecting our first child!” Rhaenys cheers with the rest of the crowd, and twirls herself into Robb’s arms. Aemon sees Rhaenys and smiles at her, his eyes still dark with lingering grief about their broken family but so strong. Darling Duyen pulls Rhaenys into a clapping game with Alia, Rosario and the small horde of children that have taken over a table laden with sweetmeats. Duyen, already taller than Rhaenys, rests her chin on Rhaenys’s head and the children giggle to see the Lady Witch demand the gods give her longer legs to chase after them with.

Robb carries Rhaenys to bed near dawn, she still giggling and laughing with Qarl and Margaery and a Summer Islander prince who has the most wicked sense of humor since Asha and Tyrion. Rhaenys wriggles around in bed. “I can’t believe Aemon and Shireen are going to have a child,” she sighs a dreamy sigh. “I feared that the poison would’ve hurt them too much for that.”

Robb lies down next to her and she entwines their limbs. He says into her hair, “He deserves a happy life with Shireen, and when we win this war they shall have it.”

“We’ll win?” She looks up at him, hope welling in her eyes. “And we’ll grow up together to be old and gray, my teats swinging by my knees and your bollocks dragging on the ground?”

He leans his head back and laughs, and Rhaenys smiles against his chest. She loves the sound of his laughter, she muses in her drunken haze. And that haze, and the joy of his laughter, and the realization that with so many soldiers coming North they may indeed have a chance of survival, finally brings her to much needed sleep.

She meets with Oberyn, Viserys, Asha, Qarl and Tyene in her solar the next day while Robb is busy with Aemon planning for battle. She serves ginger and honey tea to soothe their hangovers, although Tyene seems as serene as a septa. A secret of a shadowbinder, perhaps. “You all have more reason than most to despise the former queen,” she says without preamble. “I would see her whipped at dawn tomorrow if I could. King Aemon has made it very clear she no longer has his love. Unfortunately, she cannot become a martyr and we cannot be accused of anymore kin and kingslaying before the war.” She frowns. “They will blame me if any of her children die before their time, I know it.”

Oberyn gazes at her with glittering black eyes. “That woman is no kin of mine.”

“Or mine,” Asha whispers. She looks every inch a vicious bird of prey, ready to pick a man to bones. “She stood by as her husband killed my first family and then she helped to try to kill my second. It’s time for her to meet her own fate.”

Rhaenys sips her tea. “I know. I myself sometimes think of making her do one of those wretched walk of penances that the Faith loves so much, but then I remember that I burned down the Great Sept.” Qarl smirks and her lips twitch into a brief smile. “Alas, she is pregnant.” Oberyn swears and Rhaenys pats his hand. “I know, I said much the same. That is why I need you all to promise that she cannot be punished until things are settled, and after she has her child. As it is, she’s currently in the dungeons of Winterfell, so she is secured for now.”

“For now,” Oberyn agrees. He inhales and exhales. “What do you want done with her, sweet niece?”

“I want her gone,” Rhaenys hisses. “I want her gone and done with, so that she cannot ever hurt me or my loved ones or my people again.” She squeezes her eyes shut. “Aemon wants her executed. But the precedent of killing a crowned queen, even one set-aside, is not a good one to set for Aemon as she is a far more pitiable creature than Rhaegar ever was. And she is still his mother, even after everything that’s happened…”

“Do you advocate mercy?”

“I advocate discretion. I will see her dead before I leave this life.” Oberyn nods and so do Viserys and Asha. Qarl rests his hand on Rhaenys’s shoulder when it trembles. “Perhaps we needn’t execute her at all, but she cannot stay here after the war. She can go to Far Mossovy for all I care, as long as she cannot sink her claws into Aemon or Lysella or their children.”

She looks down at her lap. Is it a mark of weakness that she cannot swing the sword on her stepmother? She was so ready to kill her on the spot at the Red Keep, but now knowing she’s pregnant and the memories of her childhood budding behind her eyes…Rhaenys fears she doesn’t have the gut to fulfill Aemon’s execution orders. Hopefully one of these people will and she and Aemon can shut the door on Lyanna forever.

Viserys puts his hand on her shoulder. “I’ve an acquaintance with the Grand Duke, I’ll see what he says to that.” He sighs, “I regret not running Rhaegar through with my sword when Asha and I eloped, perhaps we all would’ve been spared much hurt.”

“Better yet,” Oberyn mutters, “I should’ve ended his life when I heard that his wife gave birth to her daughters.”

Rhaenys stands and bids them all to rise. “We can all imagine ways to undo his mistakes and to deal with Lyanna if it sustains us for the war. But first the war, remember that.” She wraps her arms around herself. “I cannot bear to see any of you perish in war, swear to me you won’t.” They swear, and she smiles. “Excellent. Now, let’s go torment my children until they are entirely sick of us. And Viserys, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

While the others go on ahead, Rhaenys pulls back with Tyene. Tyene, with her calm blue eyes and layers of multi-colored silk in the Tamilan fashion and strange hexagon jewelry around her waist. “Tyene, my sister Visenya sees visions in flames. She learned at the hand of a priestess of R’hllor named Melisandre. And she and Melisandre committed terrible, terrible acts.”

Tyene sneers when Rhaenys says Melisandre’s name, how interesting. She sniffs. “Let me guess, your sister is now in the thrall of madness? All the red priests and priestesses in those Red Temples court madness, and Melisandre instills it in those who stay around her for too long.” Tyene smooths down her pleated skirts. “I had the fortune to meet her once, when my master convened with other great shadowbinders. Kinvara was at least gracious and self-contained, Benerro was a fascist due to his slave upbringing, but Melisandre…she was and is dangerous. I assume that she’s been executed?”

Rhaenys squeezes Tyene’s arm. “The Red Witch nearly took me and Lysella down with her, but she is indeed dead. Visenya remains. I put her fate into Lysella’s hands, but she doesn’t know what to do with her—she was her twin sister, her best friend for years. You are a shadowbiner and a firemage, is this not true? Can you help her find her way back to humanity?”

“I will try,” Tyene says and squeezes Rhaenys’s hands in return. “Anything for my cousin.”

They play with the children by the river, playing come-into-my-castle and tossing children into the warm waters when they break guest right. Alia’s laughter rings out over the meadows and even though the sky is grim and gloomy Rhaenys feels the delight of a balmy summer day. She watches Viserys, Asha and Qarl transform around Duyen; even sharp-edged Asha is aglow with softness when she twirls her daughter around the riverbank.

Mooncatcher eventually herds Viserion to the riverbank with no small amount of huffing and snapping; Nyserix is the one who can lead Viserion around, and the dragon is rather willful otherwise. A perfect match for a willful prince: Viserys immediately stretches his hand out in offering, and proud Viserion is putty beneath him. “This is good!” Alia tells Duyen. “Now we can fly to each other if we ask our mama and papa very nicely!”

When Sarella comes to take the children away to special group lessons, Rhaenys clings to that lingering delight. Even when Viserys stares at the water and sighs. “What troubles you, Vis?”

“The seas are quite unfriendly now,” he explains. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen such calm waters.”

Rhaenys’s stomach clenches. “Are the seas too rough for the evacuation?”

He shakes his head. “The waves are fine for anyone worth their weight in sea salt. We need to be wary of what’s under the waves.”

Asha puts her hand on Rhaenys’s shoulder. “Did you not get our letter? We killed a kraken by spearing it through the eye with our prow. The Ibbenese feast upon giant leviathans the size of islands when their ships aren’t broken down the spine.”

Rhaenys rubs her eyes. “What if the Night King gets one? Is that a possibility?” They don’t know and she sighs. “Back to the archives for me, then. Arianne and Aurane are heading the sea evacuation with Lords Manderly and Redwyne, so you ought to speak with them. Catch up, throw some axes, all you pirates are so predictable.” They toss her underhand into the river and Rhaenys is nearly sick with laughter. It is so strange to laugh now, with everything that’s happened. But maybe that’s a good thing; a sign that all the light hasn’t been taken from her world.

Later, dried and exhausted from training with Ygritte and the giant collective of archers that will rain fire and dragonglass down upon advancing undead, Rhaenys goes to the library. Does the enthralling of the undead stretch to the sea? Legends speak of hellhounds and ice spiders and mammoths and shadowcats controlled by the Others, but those are creatures of land. If the Night King were to get his frozen hands on something like a leviathan and twist it to become a creation of disease and death—she shudders. The evacuation will have to take place post haste, and the ships repurposed from ferrying passengers to killing monsters. Thank the gods for the _Jolly Kraken_ and the Black Fang to spearhead a naval campaign with the fleets of Westeros.

She looks at the great map of the North mounted in the library and compares it to an atlas of greater Westeros in a book. She runs her thumb over the Neck, where Moat Cailin now stands as strong as it was near a thousand years ago. With the Moat manned, no army may take the North from the South…Rhaenys tilts her head. And what of taking the South from the North? Suppose she and her apprentices and all the Orphans finish what the children of the forest started and break the Neck of Westeros? Flood it entirely, trap the undead on the wrong side of the continent, then rain fire and boiling water upon them until they are but scattered bones?

The song of sorrows buds in her mind, and Rhaenys clutches her stomach. Her babe kicks wildly against her womb, and she hums a silly ditty about lavender and rosemary. Something to calm her blood before she loses control of her magic and blights Winterfell!

Robb enters her room and to her surprise an hour must have passed judging from the shadows. “Rhaenys, are you alright?”

“I am,” she assures him.” She runs her finger over the spine of the witching book. “I was looking up to see what songs I may need to teach the rest of the witches for the upcoming battle. Speaking of which, I believe we should make our last stand at Moat Cailin. It’s far more defensible than Winterfell and we can choke the army of the dead there.”

Robb nods. “Aemon and I also have been discussing Moat Cailin as our next base of operations. Shall we begin moving everyone south of the Neck?”

“First the wedding. I want to see my beloved brother married and sorted before we start killing ice monsters.” Rhaenys hesitates, then says, “You remember what I did to the Red Keep, I know how to blight the dead back from taking the South, albeit at the cost of the rest of the North.”

Robb narrows his eyes. “The Sorrows of the Chroyane.”

Rhaenys nods. “The Sorrows of the North. It will take every drop of my blood, but—”

“But nothing, then.” He sits down and offers his hands. She takes them and he pleads, “Rhaenys, you cannot die. You cannot injure yourself with your magic again, you have all the Orphans of the Greenblood and your apprentices to help. You must live for our children.” She opens her mouth to argue and he kisses her hands. “Oh, I know you’re going to yell at me for risking my own life in battle. Let us worry about the evacuation now? I don’t want to spend our last days of joy worrying about you.”

Rhaenys huffs and nods. First the evacuation, then everything else. She stands up and bids him to stand as well. “Come, we must prevent Mother Cat and Shireen from traumatizing Aemon about pregnancy. I dare say he’s never held a babe in his life that wasn’t already a toddler, and they must be overfilling his head with arcane knowledge.”

She lets him kiss her cheek. Robb smiles against her skin and says, “It must run in the family.” She scoffs and he kisses her again, this time on the lips. She pulls him onto the bed and they cuddle with the fire in the hearth and the wind whistling outside the windows. And Rhaenys decides that Aemon can last against her family on his own for a little while later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Viserys and Viserion bonded yay! So far 5/6 dragons are accounted for, and I know what happens with Sunchaser. Also, Yi Ti also has dragons, as do some other parts of Essos! 
> 
> The dragons of Yi Ti are not like the dragons of Valyria—Valyrian dragons are European dragons that breathe fire and have giant wings and are generally terrifying. Yi Tish dragons are Asian dragons that bring the rain, have either small or no visible wings and are seen as rather benevolent. Assha’i dragons are similar to Valyrian dragons except a lot more Lovecraftian and abjectly evil. I suppose it makes the Valyrian dragonriders less special and “cheapens” the Targaryen line…but the world is wide and full of magic. And one day even the Rhoyne river song shall be sung by any water witch regardless of their heritage.
> 
> Lysella’s metal arm is based on the real-life Iron Hand of knight Gotz von Berlichingen, built in 1504 with gear wheels that locked the fingers and wrist into fixed positions when set. It was a marvel of invention, considering it allowed the knight to wield a sword and knife as usual. Admittedly though, that prosthetic was strapped to the forearm, and required the user to physically move the gears into place. Lysella instead basically has a prosthetic similar to an automail arm like Edward Elric in Fullmetal Alchemist. It doesn’t move around quite as well since it’s the first of its kind. But thanks to High Fantasy Setting™ and Lysella putting in the effort to master her new arm, it’s functional. Her suitor Monford lowkey thinks it’s super cool lol
> 
> All the troops are rallying for Westeros and humanity! I always thought it rather localized in the show that practically only Jon and Dany’s forces gave a damn about the Others, even with Cersei’s delusional power trips accounted for. If all of humanity is threatened by it, shouldn’t more of humanity care? (Of course, the Night King went out like a little bitch so I guess people were right not to care). This time around, everyone is hands on deck for stopping the advancing army of the dead, especially with my added stakes: monsters are returning, and if the Night King wins the Elder Gods beneath Leng awaken and destroy the rest of the world. One does not merely sit out the apocalypse! 
> 
> The Empire of Tamilan mentioned in this chapter is my fantasy version of the Tamil kingdoms in Southern India of antiquity; in my mind map it’s a series of islands in the Opal Seal (a sea to the south of the Jade Sea) that trades extensively with Yi Ti, Asshai and Sothoryi kingdoms and is a great maritime power. I was quite remiss to not add them in when Rhaenys was in Essos!


	19. The Moat

They evacuate the last of the North in the week ahead. On their last day in Winterfell, Aemon assembles everyone present in the courtyard. The bitter winds from the north seem to sap at his energy, and his shoulders tremble. But his voice is iron, like a true king. “For the past moons Westeros has seen treachery vile and cruel. Father assassinating sons! Mothers attacking daughters! Every lord putting their petty needs and whims ahead of their people’s needs!” He points to the northern mountains, where the storm comes and rolls every closer. “The true enemy of Westeros is not these wretched, petty squabbles of who sits in which castle and upon which throne! No, the enemy is out there, to the north, and they are very powerful! If we do not fight as one, no matter our creed or our blood, we will all perish! Our children will perish! Our future will perish, and the dead shall lay reign to the entire world!” He clenches his fists and yells, “I swear to you, as your king and your ally, that I will do everything in my power to prevent the end of days! Will you fight with me?!”

“AYE!” The crowds yell, and blood rises to flush their faces. It gives them the strength and courage to turn away from Winterfell, stripped of every useful weapon and cloth and crop, and go south.

Not a soul remains save the armies of the living at Moat Cailin. Rhaenys clings to her children, to her Beron and Geralt who know nothing of the world beyond the arms of their parents, to her Alia who flinches and whimpers at every shadow but still snuggles close to Rhaenys and begs for bedtime stories. They will go to Dorne on the last ship out, with Catelyn and Sansa and Wylla and the rest of Winterfell’s noncombatants. Rhaenys cannot wait for them to leave; she cannot bear for them to go.

Margaery leaves to join Lady Olenna and her family in Sunspear, and Rhaenys witnesses her and Daenerys clinging to each other in Moat Cailin’s pretty courtyard with the great weirwood tree in the middle. She’s not close enough to hear their exact words, although she can imagine what she herself would say to Robb if she were to send him south: be safe, don’t worry about me, pray for me and our families. They part when Jonnel and Robar arrive to escort Margaery to her waiting carriage. Did Daenerys and Margaery ever explain to their husbands about their love for each other? Rhaenys doesn’t know and cannot tell when the ladies kiss their lords on the lips. Perhaps they have, or haven’t; Rhaenys has no authority to judge either way. All she can hope for is for Daenerys to survive, for Robar and Jonnel to survive, for these unlikely couples to make unlikely roots.

Sansa rages to part with Domeric, and Domeric proves himself a man of flesh rather than ice when he cradles Sansa so tenderly and weeps into her hair. She makes him promise to return to her, and raise a family with her, and he so swears. So quickly he promises that he will live! Rhaenys has none of his confidence, and fears that when Sansa leaves that shall be the last time she sees her.

Edwin, Meera, Branda and Ned will remain at Moat Cailin to participate in battle, as will their direwolves. Sansa’s Lady will go south with her to protect the refugees, as Lady can be as vicious as Grey Wind when needed. Perhaps in another lifetime they all could enjoy their bonds with direwolves and dragons as merely the magic it is rather an instruments of war, perhaps they will once this war is ended. But for now, they train with their armies, and pile armor around vulnerable dragon bellies, and play with their nieces and nephews. If Branda and Ned die, Cathryn will never remember a single thing about them. At least Alia has the river song, her inheritance and burden.

The day Rhaenys must part from her children is cold and dreary, the heavens a nightmare of black clouds gouging against the pale blue sky. Every ship requires a witch of some sort, be they an Orphan of the Greenblood beseeching the Mother or an Eandan priestess singing to the sea or an Ibbenese wayfinder sacrificing moonblood to their ocean goddess. The remaining noncombatant smallfolk have left by foot and horse to the South, as there are not enough witches and ships to go around. But there is this one, last ship. And Rhaenys’s children weep as if they know what is coming.

Worst of all, it’s not even Alia’s sixth nameday yet. Only five years Rhaenys got to have with her daughter, only five. And now she must send her away.

Rhaenys and Robb enter the ship’s compartments and tuck Alia and the babes into bed. They stay with them, reminding them to be good for Grammy Cat and Lady Gwyn. To have fun in the Water Gardens, and eat as much fruit as they can and swim as much as they can. It hardly matters that Beron and Geralt only crawl and that Alia still needs help peeling fruit. Rhaenys wants to imagine her children growing strong in Dorne, untouched by grief from the passing of their parents…she remembers her promise and banishes the thought. She will not die before her children are parents of their own, she cannot!

Eventually the babes fall asleep, with all of Winterfell’s cats curled and purring by them. Alia stubbornly clings to her last bit of wakefulness. “You’re going away,” she mumbles into her pillow. Not even her little Goose can persuade her to sleep. Robb strokes her hair, and Rhaenys kisses her forehead. Alia sniffles and fat tears roll down her cheeks. “I don’t want you to leave, Mama.” Rhaenys remembers her own Mama, now too far away to see again, and her heart breaks.

Rhaenys recalls a lullaby that Mama only sang once. A fragment of song so wretchedly sad that her heart aches at the thought. Still, she tucks the blankets around Alia and sings. _“Hush now, my baby, be still now don’t cry. Sleep as you’re rocked by the stream…”_ The magic in the song does its quiet work. Alia lulls, eyes drooping shut and her breaths evening out. Rhaenys’s voice cracks as she sings, _“Sleep and remember my last lullaby, so I can be with you when you dream.”_

Rhaenys kisses her children one last time, and when she leaves their room she walks out backwards so she doesn’t turn away. The ship prepares to sail down the river to the Narrow Sea to Dorne, and Rhaenys’s shakes like the foundations of the earth are coming apart from beneath her feet. Robb hugs her close, tears wet on his own cheeks, and Rhaenys sings a prayer. _“River, oh river, be gentle for me. Such precious cargo you bear!”_

The ship leaves the dock, and she cannot continue as she weeps too hard. Robb murmurs in her ear, _“Hige sceal þe heardra, heorte þe cenre, mod sceal þe mare, þe ure mægen lytlað.”_ The mind must be harder, the spirit must be bolder, and the heart therefore greater, as our might diminishes. Rhaenys wipes at her eyes and takes heart in her husband’s words. Her children, her lights of her life, are now safe in the South. And even with her shoulders now bowed and her eyes welling with tears, she must continue on.

Moat Cailin is a glorious fortress, with twenty towers and three curtain walls and notches everywhere for burning oil and boiling water to be dropped on those below. The moats are full of lizard-lions and other beasts of the Neck, although Rhaenys fears they may be turned to the legion of undead. The crannogmen, led by Meera’s brother Jojen the new Lord of Greywater Watch, welcome them all warmly to the Moat. Once the very last of people from the North pass through the Moat, Robb commands for the causeway and kingsroad to be demolished. Rhaenys and the other dragon riders torch the road and tear up the ground with their dragons. There shall be no easy path for the Night King to come.

The armies assemble, black swathes of men and women in the half-drained fields north of Moat Cailin. The armies of all Westeros amount to 320,000, along with an extra 25,000 sellswords from Essos and other nations. Archers shall line the battlements of Moat Cailin and rain dragonglass and fire down upon the undead. Trebuchets rest within the safety of the castle walls to fire large balls of burning tar until the calvary will take the field. Heavy and light calvary, all armed with dragonglass and silver and Valyrian steel. Each weapon has runes carved on its surface to give the wielder greater accuracy and strength of will against their enemies. Armored defense pavilions are set up either on the innermost battlements or just outside the outermost curtain walls, so that witches of every creed may do their magic. Arianne and the Orphans of the Greenblood shall sing from the Tower of the Children, so that they may smash a second Hammer of Waters upon Westeros if they fail. All the fleets of Westeros not currently patrolling the South to protect the evacuees shall keep any invading dead from crossing the Sunset and Narrow Seas on undead sea creatures.

And, of course, then there are the five ridden dragons that outmatch dread Balerion.

The final reports from fleeing scouts say that the Night King has some sort of ice dragon, a dread demon from the Lands of Always Winter. Rhaenys feels the furnace of Mooncatcher’s belly and cannot help but scoff—ice may do its best, but fire always burns through. Lysella flies farther north to see if she can spot the army, and she returns with her face moon-pale and lips a frigid blue. “They’re at the Wall now,” she says with chattering teeth. Rhaenys ushers her to a burning hearth and strips her of her sodden cloak, frozen over with ice. The only color on her body is her burn scars, and her prosthetic arm twitches as if someone is wrenching it. “I saw what must’ve been a million wights alone, thousands of Others. I saw the Night King.”

Everyone goes silent. A million undead men, wanting to snuff the life from all Westeros. Lysella holds her hand in Aemon’s to bring feeling back into it. “The Night King, he’s bringing the storm. I think he’s going to make enough snow to cover the Wall and they’ll swarm over.”

Daenerys narrows her eyes. “He can do whatever he pleases, we will not be snuffed out. We won’t let it.”

Rhaenys turns her thoughts away from the south where her heart shrieks and begs her to go. Instead she trains, she hones her archery accuracy until she can shoot down a man a hundred yards away right through his eye, She joins hands with her fellow water witches and they harmonize in worldless wonder with a host of Asshai’i moonsingers and Lengii wind mages and Eandan witch princesses and Ibbenese song-scryers. The very air around Moat Cailin thrums with magic, anticipation, with fear, with hope.

A break comes in Rhaenys’s concentration, a lovely rush of life that knocks the breath from her lungs. Mooncatcher demands her attention, huffing and nuzzling against Rhaenys until she climbs atop her back. Then Mooncatcher flies her south, south all the way to Dragonstone where the volcano billows smoke over an empty castle. They touch down at the mouth of a great cave, where within someone roars—it’s Sunchaser! Rhaenys recounts the last time she saw her largest dragon-child, and places it near a fortnight ago. She and Mooncatcher enter the cave, Rhaenys tugging at her dress now that she’s plastered with sulfur and sweat, until they come upon Sunchaser. Sunchaser trills at Rhaenys, and shifts his tail. Rhaenys looks down, and gasps.

A dozen eggs glitter in the dark light of the cave, each a mix of different wondrous colors and each radiating heat. Life. Rhaenys carefully edges closer to the eggs, Sunchaser and Mooncatcher huffing steam to mat her hair to her face and bring a flush to her cheeks. She cradles one egg, the exact color and shimmer of a fire opal, and startles to feel its heat. Not even the dragon eggs she received as a wedding gift were this hot, and she swears that she can feel the little heft of a hatching from within. “Since when were you planning to have a family?” she smiles and chides Sunchaser. “I hope these eggs were made with Nyserix or Rhaelaxes! Far too much incest in the Targaryen line. Or did you have them with Viserion and change your inner parts? Dragons and their tricksy ways, nevertheless I draw the line at your siblings!”

Then Rhaenys remembers that she’s telling a dragon off for incest, and she dissolves into helpless laugher.

She returns and tells everyone the glorious news. Daenerys is ecstatic. “One day the world will be filled with dragons again, how lovely!” She pauses, then clarifies, “Terrifying, too. And perhaps dangerous. But still lovely.” And isn’t that a great summation of the future?

Robb, Randa and Ysabel lock themselves in a library one day for hours, searching something to do with runecraft. When they emerge, they gather every single soul at the Moat into three queues, be they soldiers or support or servants. With their blood, they mark a rune onto the hearts of everyone; the rune is intricate, and glows a dark red on their skin. And together in unison the three chant as they mark their runes. _“By fire’s might, and by the living light: this soul departs, this vessel set alight.”_ Rhaenys shudders when Robb marks the rune on her breast. She knows, just as she knows the song of sun and water and every freckle on her husband’s body, that if she dies with this rune marking her she shall burst into flames. No wights for the Night king to control, no enslavement of her body while her soul screams in the afterlife.

It takes two days to mark every single person, and by the end all three pale and shivering, their blood drawn by blood magic and yet to replenish. Rhaenys recognizes the signs, how Robb and Randa and Ysabel will be weak and frail for perhaps a whole week as this is the first time they’ve pushed themselves with runecraft. And yet, despite knowing godsdamn well that he is not fit for battle, Robb announces to the crowds that he shall lead them as Lord of Winterfell into the Long Night. The men and women around her cheer but Rhaenys doesn’t. No, she stares at Robb with eyes that surely must burn him despite the bitter winter chill.

No, he can’t!

He cannot fight! He simply cannot, not with half his blood given to the gods! He will _die_ and Rhaenys will not allow that! She gathers herself up and announces that she too shall lead them, with all the might of the river magic within her veins. Once again the crowd cheers, and Robb glares at her. Oh, now _he_ is angry at _her?!_ What an interesting concept! They return their chambers together while the people scatter, with Robb still sweating and shaking by her side, and Rhaenys wants to throw up out of pure outrage.

Rhaenys locks the doors of their chambers and her hands buzz with anger. Stupid, pigheaded, stubborn fool that he is, he puts his life at risk for the lofty sake of honor! She whirls around and tells him so. “Aye, what a marvelous ballad it will make for our children to sing! The Young Wolf draining his soul and strength for his soldiers, and then throwing his body away to the Others so those same soldiers think him not a craven!”

“Oh, so will the pot preach to the kettle that he is black now?” Robb is but an arm’s length away, his face flushed with anger and defiance, his eyes blazing hotter than the flames in the hearth. “Will our children sing of the water witch who drained all the blood in her body to break the Neck and drown the North?”

“How dare you!”

“There are already songs of you fainting and bleeding to carve rivers! How dare I indeed, trying to prevent you from killing yourself!”

“I’m not trying to kill myself! I’m trying to save us all the only way I can!”

“By sacrificing yourself again and again?! You don’t need to Rhaenys, just trust us!”

“And what about you sacrificing your own self, it’s fine when you do it?! Will you make me a widow before I see six-and-twenty namedays?!”

“I will NOT watch you die with our child in your belly, I’ve already had to watch you edge that line too many times!”

“And I will NOT sit back and watch you die when I could be helping you!”

Robb yells in anger, pulling at his hair. Rhaenys pants, her entire body burning with rage and frustration. Her eyes lock with his, she sees his blood boiling—she sees how she’s made his blood boil, just as he’s made hers. The insufferable man! And she throws herself at him, their teeth clacking as they devour each other’s mouths. He tears at her dress and she rips his doublet clean from his body, still kissing violently as if this will settle who is victorious. She bites his lip and he growls deep enough to rattle her bones. Robb crushes her to his chest and she grips his hair hard enough to hurt.

Her rage mixes with passion until they are one and the same, and when he throws her on the bed all she feels is desire, scorching and wicked and wrathful. If he wants her to yield, he’ll have to be very fucking convincing! Damn the pregnancy! Then all is the frenzy of hair pulling and hands gripping hips until bruises blossom and teeth biting and mouths sucking and words blaspheming their ears and Rhaenys screaming his name and Robb arching his back from behind her with a howl and the bedframe slamming against the wall over and over until surely all of Moat Cailin will crumble around them.

When they finally finish and collapse into a pile, too exhausted to continue and near-delirious from the pleasure, Rhaenys pulls a sheet over them for some semblance of modesty. Robb shoves it back down and says that he wants to see his wife. Rhaenys laughs a breathless laugh. “Haven’t…haven’t had enough of your—your vexing, infuriating minx of a wife?”

Robb kisses her shoulder. “Never enough. You light my fire, I can’t…ever stay mad at you.”

Rhaenys cradles his head to her chest. Now that the red haze of anger and desire is gone, she feels softened and tired. She sees the weakness of his body, the weakness of her own, and that softness morphs into sadness. “I’m sorry I’ve scared you. With me and my magic.” Robb shakes his head and she clarifies, “I never go out of my way to put myself in danger. The thought of leaving you and our children behind, I cannot bear it.” Her voice breaks. “I only want to stand by your side, I need to do everything I can so you don’t leave us and I don’t have to live the rest of my life without you. I cannot imagine a worse fate, than a world without you in it leaving behind me and our babes. I cannot choose that fate, not willingly.”

Robb looks up, and his bright blue eyes shimmer with tears. “I’ve loved you since I first saw you. I cannot live without this love, it’s changed me to be a better lord, a better father, a better man. I need you to be safe and to be mother to our babes and Lady Stark to the North. Please do not make me watch you die, Rhaenys, I will not survive it.”

Rhaenys kisses him. They part, panting for breath, and she swears, “Then neither of us shall die. I forbid it. If we lose this battle, we go into exile together and we figure out what to do next. I promise.”

He nods, and Rhaenys blows out the candle that miraculously stayed upright on their bedside stand. With only the fire in the hearth illuminating the room, Rhaenys curls around him and sings a sweet lullaby about lavender blue and rosemary green, and how when he is king she shall be his queen. He falls asleep in the crook of her neck, and Rhaenys blinks back tears. She prays to the gods, every god she knows, for the strength to not break her promise.

She awakens at the hour of the wolf and cannot fall asleep again. She carefully untangles herself from Robb and redresses in a woolen nightgown, overgown and cloak. She wishes for fresh air, the humidity of the Neck beading on her skin and reminding her that her magic here shall benefit from being at the convergence of so much water. The halls are silent save for a few guards and fellow insomniacs. Most of them nod and she nods in return, although one Free Folk spearwife smirks and mentions something about how her estimation of kneeler men has gone up. Rhaenys snorts and adjusts the collar of her cloak; House Stark is strong indeed.

Rhaenys finds Aemon on the battlements facing the North. His face is frosty white under the pale moonlight as if all the blood has been drained from his body. Rhaenys waddles up to him, puts her hand on his shoulder and squeezes. Then she asks, “I know that look, what’s wrong?”

“Aside from the usual things, I needed to speak with you and I couldn’t rest until I found the right words for it.” Down below some Free Folk banter with crannogmen while there’s still time to enjoy, although their voices are indistinct. Rhaenys can see Ygritte’s flaming red hair, and how Aemon’s eyes track her every movement. Aemon sighs, “Before you ask, she and I made peace, as did Shireen and I. I won’t go down the path my father did.” Rhaenys lowers her gaze and squeezes his shoulder again. He sighs. “Ygritte and I had a…thing between us. My feelings for here are genuine—but she knows that I will never stray from my wife again. She took it well, didn’t even stab me.”

“A thing?”

“I—it all started when she was trying to get me to enter a herbal bath when I didn’t want to, so I picked her up atop my shoulders and carried her back to my bed. Entirely innocent, but according to her, that was when I stole her,” he grouses, and Rhaenys giggles helplessly at the absurd image. He jests, “Imagine the King of the Seven Kingdoms running off with a spearwife, the bards wouldn’t know what to do with themselves. My mother would eat her heart out.” She laughs, as does Aemon, but then the humor fades to something more thoughtful. “I admit, the thought did cross my mind during that time in the sickroom, when Ygritte and I would talk and Shireen was first away in her own room and then away with you. I thought of abdicating my claim to the throne and running away with Ygritte, and leaving the crown to you.”

Rhaenys’s jaw drops. “Why? You’ve been raised all your life to be king, you have the training and education very few other lords have—”

“And yet when I look into a mirror, I see _him.”_ Aemon turns away, his fists clenching until his knuckles are near translucent. “I see what he’s done to you and to countless others, and how that legacy swings over my head like a sword. I see how, if I were in his place…I see how I could make those same, wretched decisions.” Rhaenys denies this and he shakes his head. “You weren’t there when he and Mother and Melisandre were burning prisoners. They always picked the worst prisoners, the rapists and the wife beaters and the child killers. I would imagine those wicked men and women doing those same crimes to you and the twins and Dany, and I would agree that they should be burned. I _agreed!_ What’s to say that I won’t agree to burn more prisoners now that I’m king?!” He half-sobs. “I slept with another woman outside my marriage vows, Rhaenys! I was in love—I still love her! Who is to say I won’t follow my father’s footsteps and try at having two wives?”

“I won’t let you.” Rhaenys grips his shoulders and forces him to look at her. “You think I’ve never battled with the urge to hurt others? I boiled a murderer alive, I watched both Roose Bolton and Ramsay Snow be eaten alive, I did nothing as nuncle Oberyn and Vis and Asha beat Rhaegar to an inch of his life. I left him to the mercy of our dragons. I enjoyed it! I know that darkness in your heart, and I know you’re nothing at all like our father.” Aemon’s gray eyes, so similar to Edwin and Branda and Eddard’s, overflow with tears and she wipes them away. “You’re not him. How could you be? You’re a good man.” He shakes his head and she arches her eyebrow. “You know nothing, Ser Jon. That’s why I stand by you, from my first day to my last day.”

Rhaenys hugs him, and his breath hitches against her chest as he cries in that silent way people cry when they are too afraid to admit they need to. How terrible it must be to have no one to cry with, be weak with. She prays that soon Aemon and Shireen may depend on each other like how she and Robb do. He eventually hugs her back, and Rhaenys murmurs, “You have me, and Shireen, and Dany, and Sella, and Robb—you have all of us to depend on. We won’t let you fall.”

“I may fall,” Aemon says. “I may fall in the coming battle, I may fall to an assassin’s blade, I may fall to disease or madness or my horse throwing a shoe. And if I do, will you be my children’s Regent?” Rhaenys nods. Aemon is quiet for a moment. “And if I have no children to survive me, will you be Queen?”

Rhaenys squeezes her eyes shut against the onslaught of emotions such a thought brings her. Grief. Denial. Longing. Fear. Rhaenys opens her eyes and nods again. “I will. But only if I must. If you get yourself killed being heroic and noble, I will drag your soul back to the living world just so I can kill you again.” Aemon laughs, his fist to his mouth, and Rhaenys sniffs. “I dare say I won’t have to do anything myself—Shireen will bludgeon you with her shoes until the Stranger must intervene.”

Aemon smiles, “She would, as is her right and sacred duty to keep me in line.” They both look towards the North, a cold wind blowing from the dark wall of clouds approaching ever closer. “The realm is in good hands either way when it comes to queens.”

The sound of slowly beating drums draws their attention. Rhaenys and Aemon head towards the source of the noise, the great courtyard where the weirwood tree weeps red sap. There stand Lysella, Visenya, Edwin, the old man with one eye and the old man’s two children still cloaked in dark brown. What is Visenya doing outside of her dungeon cell? The children are the ones beating the drums at their feet, rhythmic like a beating heart. They remove their hoods and to Rhaenys’s shock, they are not human at all. They have large golden eyes, brown skin dappled like a deer, wizened mouths and curling ears—they are the children of the forest come alive again after thousands of years. One of the children hands Visenya a long Valyrian steel sword, and the old man and Edwin kneel in the grass. Lysella stands to the side, glaring at Visenya with blood-chilling hate in her eyes. The old man holds a bowl in his hands, and stares at Rhaenys and Aemon with something like amusement.

Rhaenys wants to call out to them, to move, to do anything, but she is transfixed. The beating captures hold of her body and she is buoyant and calm in the spaces between the drumbeats. Visenya raises the sword and speaks in a voice that sounds like the wind through leaves, rain on water, stones settling in a mountain. It is a song; she knows this in her heart just as she knows the river song. The song of the ancient earth. Visenya then slides the sword along the old man’s neck as if drawing a bowstring across an oud, and Rhaenys cannot shout. She can only watch all the blood pour into the bowl, then over the edge and soak the ground beneath him. The weirwood twists and groans, growing larger with every drop spilled. The old man sinks into the ground, pulled into the roots of the weirwood, recycled into the new leaves and strange white flowers blossoming like teardrops from the branches.

Edwin cups his hands in the sodden earth and drinks. One moment he is there, and the next he isn’t. No, now he is in the weirwood tree, nestled inside like a little boy cradled among the branches of the tree he has seen fit to climb and conquer. He says, “I can see him! He is but three days away! He rides upon a dragon made of ice and fear!”

Visenya turns to Rhaenys and says, “Fear not for him, o’ Joy of the Rhoyne. His fate is that among the living, and he owes Meera a child to raise and love.”

Rhaenys can finally speak again, although she can hardly recognize her voice. “What is to be your fate then?”

Visenya just smiles, closes her indigo eye, and drinks the entire bowl. The dragons howl and thunder crackles from the North where the cold winds blow. She opens her blood red eye and she says, “My fate is that of humanity’s.” She offers the pommel of the bloodied sword, and Rhaenys recognizes it. It’s Dark Sister, Visenya’s sword now offered to Rhaenys.

Lysella walks to Rhaenys’s side, and whispers, “Do well to have them in your keeping.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visenya is the new Three-Eyed Raven! Albeit in a much different context than my original outline, but here we are! Last chapter, Lysella asked Rhaenys to host an old man in comfort when he came to Winterfell. That was Bloodraven and his children of the forest, and they followed them to Moat Cailin. Lysella knew what was going to happen (Visenya was to become the 3ER) and helped it happen because a) she wanted Visenya to finally fulfill her goddamn prophecy-fate she was harping on about, and b) shove Visenya as far away from the Iron Throne as possible without killing her own twin. A much more interesting fate than becoming a silent sister. It was also quite nice of her to give Rhaenys Visenya’s Dark Sister (HAH I crack myself up) right before the Battle.
> 
> Because the Battle is next chapter!! I’m not screaming in terror about having to write it, you are!!
> 
> The song Rhaenys sings to Alia, Beron and Geralt before their ships leaves is from “Deliver Us” by Ofra Haza, Stephen Schwartz and Eden Riegel from The Prince of Egypt. It’s the lullaby that Moses’s mother sings to him when she sends him down the river and I always tear up when I listen to it so I felt it was the best fit for that scene. Robb’s lines came from Byrhtwold’s speech in The Battle of Maldon in Beowulf, as it inspires courage in the face of a far greater enemy.


	20. The Battle

Rhaenys, Aemon, Lysella, Daenerys, Viserys and Shireen sit in the secluded room with Oberyn and Asha guarding the door. Rhaenys wishes for a hot stone to soothe the terrible pains in her lower back and womb, but that is a luxury she can do without for now. Now must come the answer to an unexpected question: who will wield Dark Sister in the coming war? Who will wield a sword with such incredible legacy, that legacy already weighing down the air in the room even with the sword idle in its plain borrowed sheath.

“One of us ought to have it,” Rhaenys says. “It’s a long-lost heirloom to House Targaryen—it can’t be trusted with anyone else.”

“It’s _your_ sword, Rhae, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” Lysella shrugs. “Just lend it to whoever it best at sword fighting.” She frowns at her prosthetic arm. “I’ll be on Rhaelaxes regardless, but…well, I was left-handed. It’ll be rather useless if I wield it.”

“And I’m an archer. I wouldn’t know how to use it in time to be of much worth on Mooncatcher’s back and on the battlements.” Rhaenys flinches at a cramp—damn these false contractions! She had quite enough of them with Alia’s pregnancy!—and nudges the sword’s sheath with her finger. “It feels bizarre anyway, to have Visenya’s sword. I doubt she would have approved of me having it.” This sword may be one of her children’s one day; the conquerors spin in their graves!

Daenerys plays with the delicately embroidered silk fan in her hands; a nameday gift from Margaery. “I never learned much of anything to do with battle. Highgarden taught me much but nothing of this.”

Viserys looks at Aemon and Shireen. “I’ll take the sword gladly, but I admit I’m very attached to my own and would have to learn Dark Sister’s balance. Perhaps our king or queen should wield it, it would do our fighting men well to see a Targaryen ruler wielding a Targaryen heirloom. If only we had Blackfyre too, then we’d have a matching set.”

“My queen?” Aemon asks Shireen.

Shireen gives him a calm, gentle look that sends shivers down Rhaenys’s spine. Shireen told her to not get involved with her marriage troubles, and Rhaenys kept her peace. Yet it seems Shireen’s own peace is on shakier ground. “Yes, I am your queen, aren’t I? Indeed maybe I should have the sword to remind you.”

Lysella gives Rhaenys a wide-eyed look and Rhaenys minutely shakes her head. Daenerys is quite occupied with her silk fan, and Viserys looks quite intently out the window. Aemon bows his head. “I’ve seen you wield a sword before, Shireen. Your parents taught you well. And Dark Sister was made for a woman’s hand—it would be honored to have you as its wielder.”

“Yes, it was made for Visenya. And I am your Visenya, aren’t I?” It’s remarkable how placid her voice is. All the better to suit the poison dripping from every syllable. “If I’m Visenya, and you are Aegon come again, who would be Rhaenys then? Aside from our esteemed sister of course, who is more of a Nymeria, wouldn’t you say?”

“Oh, I just remembered that Lady Meera was asking for my opinion about the food stocks!” Rhaenys rolls herself to her feet. “Well, I’ll leave you two to sort out the sword, it’s in good hands, would anyone like to escort me to the stock rooms?”

“Rhaenys, please stay.” Shireen’s blue eyes flicker. “But yes, Lady Meera is waiting. Dany, Sella, Viserys, would you go help her? And if you see Mistress Ygritte, please send her here because I have something to discuss with her.”

Ah. So it begins, then. Rhaenys sighs, the beginning of a terrible headache pulsing at her temples. Better now than in the middle of battle, at least. But even still, there are far more worrying matters on Rhaenys’s mind than playing peacekeeper to her brother and good sister’s marriage. Lysella mouths “good luck” at Rhaenys when she makes her escape and both Daenerys and Viserys touch her shoulder. When they are gone, Rhaenys frowns Aemon and Shireen. “Have it out then. You two were fine until last night—what changed?”

Aemon flinches and Shireen folds her hands on the soft swell of her stomach. “Nothing’s changed, other than I found out a healer prescribed Mistress Ygritte full strength moon tea. Not a thimble for stimulating slow moonblood, not a half-dose to trigger it, no!”

Rhaenys shoots a glare at Aemon. “You said you and Ygritte ended things!”

“And we did! We did when Shireen returned from Storm’s End a moon ago and I swore to fix what I broke! She told me nothing about this and I—it’s my mistake, I should’ve been more careful, I admit it!” He grips at his hair. “I…you shouldn’t be involved, you’ve already done enough for us. This is not your mess.”

“It’s really not.” Rhaenys slouches in her chair. “Why am I here, Shireen? I’m not my brother’s keeper, nor yours, and I could really do without knowing the intimate details of your marriage.” Aemon flushes and Shireen twists her lips. “If you’re now asking me to castigate Ygritte who saved my daughter’s life, and my niece’s, and yours—”

“Not quite,” Shireen demurs. Rhaenys wonders if Aemon realized that not only was Shireen the daughter of Stannis Baratheon, but Cersei Lannister. It’s but faint memories, faint as Jaime’s laughter and Mama’s smiles, but Rhaenys remembers the stories about the fierce Lioness of Casterly Rock. Shame Aemon never got such an education, and that he seems to eager to emulate Rhaegar! “You’re here as a reminder why I shouldn’t lose my temper entirely and scream my husband and his former mistress out of the Moat.” Shireen gives Rhaenys a sad smile. “It would be poor form to do that in the presence of Queen Elia Martell’s daughter, who has endured far worse than this petty insult.”

Rhaenys wraps her arms around her chest and feels as if she wants to cry. How wonderful, now she’s a prop in their fight on account of Mama’s death. “I just want you two to be happy,” she whispers. Her temples pound and her back feels as if her spine shall rip itself free entirely of her tired flesh. So tired she is of Rhaegar’s folly with Lyanna, of Aemon’s folly with Ygritte, of the follies of House Targaryen. “Had I known this would’ve happened, I would’ve found a different healer.”

Shireen pats Rhaenys’s arm. “Aye, and we’d all be dead then. It’s proving hard to despise her when she’s why I can despise at all.” She gives Aemon a vicious smile. “You pick them well, my dear.”

Aemon narrows his eyes. “Aye, just as you were well picked out for me, my queen.” Shireen opens her mouth in shock and Aemon says, “You are right to be angry with me for breaking my vows to you. That is just and fair, and I take full responsibility for my actions. But do not be angry at me for having the misfortune to fall in love, when we both knew ours was never a love match to begin with!”

Shireen rears back. “Oh, and what was it then? Just a front for you to gallivant off with every spearwife that strikes your fancy?”

“You and Rhaenys can answer that. You both plotted to become my queen without telling me beforehand, as if I was some fine prize stag to be hunted down. The very fate I never wanted for my sisters.” Rhaenys flinches. “And when I found out about your plan, I thought you two so clever that I couldn’t say anything but yes.” Aemon glares at Rhaenys. “Not every arranged marriage is like yours, we can’t all fall in love at first sight! A thousand lords and ladies marry for politics every year in Westeros, and every one of them have their secrets. Shall we ask Dany and Margaery how much they adore their husbands?!”

Shireen looks away from him, but Rhaenys leans towards Aemon. “Do not involve Dany and Marg in your business,” Rhaenys says. “No one else needs to be pulled into your own problems. And you’re right. I didn’t love Robb right away and I suppose it was foolish of me to expect that from you and Shireen.” She grips her teacup tightly. “But we decided to trust each other! Robb never took a mistress, and I never took a paramour!”

“A _pregnant_ mistress,” Shireen hisses.

Aemon jumps to his feet and begins to pace. “You two are acting as if I climbed the towers of Winterfell and proclaimed to all and sundry that Ygritte was to be my Lyanna!” His cheeks flush in anger and embarrassment. “No one knew aside from us, Lady Cersei and Sarella—and only because you told your mother, Shireen. I never intended to replace you with Ygritte, I never intended to what, take her South with me? Sire a thousand bastards on her? Tear Westeros apart again right after Rhaenys won it back for us?! Tell me which one of these thoughts crossed your mind, and I’ll tell you how neither of them have come into being!” Shireen grits her jaw. Aemon turns away from them both. “There is nothing between her and me now. There is _no_ pregnancy, that’s the entire point of moon tea! Ygritte hasn’t spoken to me since you returned from Storm’s End and I haven’t to her. You are my queen, and my wife. I don’t know what else more I can offer you, as you do not trust my words.”

Shireen hisses, “Aye, I do not trust your words at all,” and Rhaenys hides her face in her hands. Such a disaster, on the eve of a greater disaster!

Ygritte slips through the doors. To her credit, she does not flinch away from Shireen’s gaze. “You asked for me, your queenship?”

“Yes, please sit.” Ygritte sits the farthest she can away from Aemon and keeps her spine rigid. “Is it true you’re pregnant with my husband’s child?”

“Not anymore.” Ygritte looks at them all with her blue-gray eyes—there is no regret there, only quiet shame. “I knew it would be naught but trouble to have a bairn now, and a bairn whose husband cannot claim me. ‘Tis rotten to birth a fatherless child, especially when there’s kings and queens and other business involved. Rotten to birth your husband’s bairn with your back turned, and you dinnae do nothing to deserve that.”

Shireen laughs; Rhaenys winces at the harsh sound. “Oh, so that’s bad, but not sleeping with my husband?”

“I dinnae do nothing he didn’t ask me to do, nae nothing I didn’t agree to.” Shireen glares a thousand daggers at her. Ygritte’s lips twitch downwards. “Your husband is no raper, o’ Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. He befriended me when I had few other friends in this Southron place. He offered his affections and I accepted them. We had our time, and we knew that time would come to an end when he took his throne. It’s ended now and it willnae come again.”

Shireen narrows her eyes. “It’s truly ended? Or are you and Aemon making a fool of me yet again?”

Ygritte gives Shireen a withering look before looking down at the table. Her voice is quiet, and pure iron. “I want nothing at all to do with you, your queenship. I dinnae want your crown, your fancy jewels, your upkeep of an entire kingdom, and I dinnae want your husband’s bairn. I just want to be left in peace. I’ve already had my heart broken once, so if it means you’ll leave me be you can have my pride too. Do whatever you want if I can go home freely after this.” Shireen blinks and says nothing. Aemon stares out the window. Rhaenys sighs. How easy it is to paint Ygritte as a grasping Lyanna with a pretender in her womb, when all she wants is to be left alone after the end of a romance. How much happier Rhaenys’s life would be if Lyanna was more like Ygritte!

Ygritte says, “I’m sorry I caused you pain, and I’m sorry he wasn’t free for my affections. I truly am sorry, more than I have words for.” Only then does she look at Aemon, and there is firm determination in her gaze. “Call me a whore if it pleases you. I’ve no defense but this: nae I decry him a raper. And nae I again go to him, I swear on my people’s graves.”

Shireen stands up, and her fists tremble at her sides. “You saved both our lives, then became his lover! If only you knew this sick sort of betrayal, how you—you made a _fool_ of me, as I could do nothing!” Ygritte bows her head and apologizes again. Shireen sniffles, then nods with the intense determination of agreeing to cut off her own arm. “But if you speak the truth, then I thank you. I thank you, Ygritte! I thank you for being the only adult in this entire affair!” Then she turns to Aemon. “At least she’s of an age with Rhaenys and has more sense than you! Your own parents ripped our nation into pieces for their love, and you would go do the same!”

“I would never! You know that, Shireen!” Aemon kneels at her feet. “I was wrong. I was foolish, and weak, and—and I was afraid. I broke our wedding vows and I broke your trust in me and…I won’t justify it. But I would have never gone that far, not without forsaking the crown.”

She sighs and turns away from all of them. “Did you think you were the only one in this marriage that had fears? Yes, I knew exactly what Rhaenys and I planned for! A crown on our heads and peace in Westeros. And I didn’t love you when I married you—how could have I? We’d only been somewhat friends before then and in the Red Keep there was nowhere to be close, to let the walls down and be honest.” She turns back to them. “I’m being honest now. And you answer me honestly, Aemon Targaryen: will this be the last mistress who drinks moon tea? Will you be like Rhaegar and constantly seek a Lyanna?”

“No. I’d rather die than be like him.”

“Aye, but you already were.”

Rhaenys sets her teacup firmly down on the table. Back they are again around this circle of anger! “When I took back Kings Landing, you had an entire moon to settle this. Either of you could’ve told me that you wanted out of your marriage and I would’ve made it happen. I’m Rhaenyra Redeemed, who would’ve questioned me after what I did to Kings Landing?” She laughs and the sound is as bitter as tansy. “I could’ve made Aemon take temporary septon vows as penance for the Sept of Baelor’s destruction and annulled your marriage! I could’ve taken the throne for myself and let you go chase other destinies! I could’ve done anything you asked! But both of you— _both of you_ —decided to stay together. Even knowing what happened. And now you must make it work.”

Everyone looks at Rhaenys in hurt shock and her temper flares. “Have all of you forgotten who the real enemy is?!” She points out the window, where the clouds are as dark as evening even in the morning. “He is out there! _The Night King is coming in less than three days!_ And if any of you become too heartbroken and furious at each other, if you get yourselves killed and risk Westeros over a problem that you three ought to have settled a moon ago—I swear by the old gods and the new, I will not let any of you risk my children’s lives and futures!”

Shireen sighs, and sits down. She is quiet for a while. Then she says to Aemon, “I forgave you already. I’ll forgive you again, and you too Ygritte. If I can forgive the men at Cape Wrath, this is easy.” She wipes at her eyes furiously. “But don’t you forget it! Both of you betrayed me, hurt me, when I did nothing to deserve this! And I know you loved each other, I dare say all of Westeros shall sing one day of poor King Aemon and his Free Folk spearwife. But what about me?! It wasn’t your place! It…it wasn’t your place…”

Rhaenys licks her lips and speaks up again. “Aemon, you are my brother. Ygritte, you are my friend and you saved my family. But my mother suffered the same as Shireen did, and her pain still resonates within me. I cannot condone what you did. I can never.”

Ygritte nods. “I meant what I said: I willnae bother you again. After this war is finished, I’ll return to the Free Folk and become just another spearwife far away from here.”

“Marry someone who will keep you content and far away from the Red Keep,” Shireen hisses. Rhaenys glares at her. She then bites her lip and says, “Find your love and happiness, Ygritte of the Free Folk. You saved my life and my husband’s life and the life of two innocent children. I won’t forget that. But I cannot forget this either.”

“Aye. I understand.”

Aemon is silent for a while. Then he takes the sword, draws it from his sheath. He presses the blade against his palm, then he clenches his hands together in bloody supplication to Shireen. “I will spend the rest of my life earning your trust back, if it can be earned at all. I ask for nothing—no mercy, no forgiveness, no softness. All I ask is for the privilege in serving you as your husband, in any way you see fit.”

Shireen’s eyes, stormy and volatile as the clouds above Moat Cailin, soften. Not in true forgiveness nor acceptance nor love, but they soften all the same. “You may, Aemon. You may. And I think you ought to take the sword—I’ll be on Dreamfyre and it won’t be of much use in the skies.”

“You three can finish this,” Rhaenys excuses herself. She is tired, she is sad, and most of all she is angry. Angry that Aemon was unfaithful! Angry that Ygritte accepted his affections! Angry that Shireen dragged her into their argument as an unwilling peacekeeper! Angry that the Night King is but three days away and here they are fighting!

“I want no more part of—whatever this is. Aemon, you are king and husband. Shireen, you are queen and wife. You two need to either decide to act together, or act side by side in separate paths. Chose a decision and stick to it. Westeros cannot have another public meltdown of a ruling marriage on either of your sides. As just as both your feelings might be…you must put Westeros and her people first. If you can’t, tell me now so I can claim the crown in my own name. There is still time for that, before Westeros meets her fate.” They are silent. Then Rhaenys hefts herself to her feet and leaves. She does not meet with Meera; instead she throws herself into bed and weeps. She weeps nameless hysterical tears and it isn’t until Robb and Lysella join her bed and curl around her, that can she find the peace to rest.

The rest of the three days before the Others come pass too quickly and too slowly. Every second drags along Rhaenys’s guts, filling her with fear. Will this be the last second she jokes with Oberyn? Will this be the last second she sees Robb smile? Will this be the last second she ever reads a letter from Wylla? There is too much she wants to do, too much she hasn’t done yet. She hasn’t even given birth, will she truly be going into battle heavy with child? And yet the seconds slip by towards a hell that Rhaenys wishes would come already. Let the dead collapse upon the Moat now before she loses her nerve!

She wonders if this is how Mama felt during the Rebellion when war crept ever closer to the Red Keep and her life’s hourglass emptied slowly but surely into the Mad King’s fists. Rhaenys asks Oberyn, “What do I do to stop being so afraid? I can hardly think.”

Oberyn wraps his arm around her shoulders and kisses her forehead. “This fear you feel is a gift, my little sunbeam. Do not let it consume you, but rather let it guide you.”

Rhaenys clings to that bit of wisdom. As the storm from the North overwhelms the Moat with howling wind and bitter frost, she cannot be consumed by fear. She stands on the battlements, swathed in thick furs. With her are a troupe of Ibbenese witches. She motions at the storm and asks in High Valyrian, “Can you stop the snow?”

One of them nods, and they sing their wordless song that takes the ice from the air and forces it to clump and fall to the ground until the wind is clear. And Rhaenys can see on the horizon endless writing black. The end of the world is but a day away.

She spends her last day with her family around the weirwood tree where Edwin remains as cheerful as ever. She and Robb and their siblings, their cousins, their aunts and uncles, their bosom friends like Brienne—were it not for the screaming wind and the oppressive crush of doom on their shoulders, it would be a beautiful winter’s night. Night, because the sun is invisible behind the thick black clouds rumbling with thunder. Viserys toasts the thunder and warns it to stay in the clouds, as surely it too shall be defeated by the armies of the Known World.

She spends her last night going over Moat Cailin’s stock. They have enough food to last a year, they have enough linens and cloth to wrap every soldier like a Meereense mummy, they have barrels and barrels of healing poultices and milk of the poppy and firewine. All enough to keep a man alive, up until his soul leaves and he bursts into flames. The soldiers will rotate in teams, never forced to fight against the army of the undead for too long. The archers lining every wall of the Moat and erected battlements farther into the battlefield have over two hundreds dragonglass and silver arrowheads for each archer, and a thousand more wooden stakes to dip in tar and burn through the wights. Every cavalryman has their horse armored in Valyrian steel, every ground fighter has a weapon carved with runes. And they have their five fire-breathing dragons and three dragons that bring torrents of rain to sweep the dead from their feet.

A benefit for Rhaenys, as she will have to balance flying Mooncatcher, water witching, and being a backup archer at the Moat. Rhaenys steeples her fingers together and dread pulls at her heart. No wonder Robb is so terrified for her, she will be so exposed and she is so heavily pregnant she won’t be able to run if she is caught off guard…

Rhaenys wraps her arms around her stomach. Her babe kicks constantly now and her innards cramp, how is she supposed to soothe her unborn child when the dead come tomorrow? Perhaps the babe knows that death is near, how selfish Rhaenys was to grow heavy with child on the eve of disaster! Rhaenys sniffles, and waddles back to her chambers so she can curl up in bed and cry.

To her surprise, she hears multiple voices behind the doors. She rests her ear against the door and hears Robb say, “I was a coward, I’ll admit that. I was too afraid that you wanted nothing to do with me.”

“Why would you think that?” It’s Eddard speaking, and his voice sounds so sad. Rhaenys’s heart sinks.

“Da would talk about you, how you were an honorable man and the best brother he could’ve asked for. But…but you never wrote to me. I never heard any word of you that didn’t come from Da. And I understand that when you took the black you denied any claim to family—I understand. It still hurt.”

“Forgive me, Robb. It was never because I didn’t want you.” Bodies shuffles and Rhaenys imagines Robb hugging Eddard hard around the middle. “No, I never wrote because I was afraid to intrude on Benjen raising you. You are his son, I didn’t—I was afraid you hated me for leaving you behind.”

“Don’t say that, I could never hate you.”

Rhaenys wipes at her eyes. How lucky Robb is, to have two fathers to love him, one to beget and one to raise and both to turn to. She has no father anymore, by her own hand. Mama died years ago and Lyanna rots in her prison room. And perhaps Alia and her sons will lose their mother and father too.

She inhales, exhales. No, she cannot think that. She cannot let the fear consume her. Instead she knocks on the door. Destruction comes tomorrow, and they must put these heavy cares aside for now and sleep. Sleep while they still live to dream.

Dawn does not rise. No, it is as dark as midnight when the armies of the undead finally make their way to the Moat. Rhaenys, Lysella, Daenerys, Shireen and Viserys, as well as their three Yi Tish counterparts, stand by their dragons. Robb, Aemon, Arya, and Branda stand by their direwolves. The crannogmen wet their tridents and the archers nock their bows and the calvary soothe their horses and the swordsmen unsheathe their swords. Commanders of every section and platoon of warriors call to their men and women, telling them to be strong of heart, strong of will, strong of mind.

Arianne and her Orphans sit in the Children’s Tower, and witches and sorcerers of every creed dot the battlefields with their element of choice. Snow, smoke, shadow, and of course the waters of the Neck. Rhaenys turns to Robb, sees how even in the howling darkness his hair is still red, his eyes are still blue. He is still her Robb, from her first day to her last day. She reaches out to him, and he holds her hand. He squeezes it, and says, “I love you.”

“And I love you.”

The horns and drums of war sound. Rhaenys gives him one last kiss, a kiss she knows is a goodbye. Can he feel all her love for him through her lips? Will this be enough? Could it ever be enough? Rhaenys doesn’t know, she may never know. But it will have to do.

People begin to sing, to pray. In a dozen different languages, all beseeching the gods to not abandon them to their fates. Rhaenys prays in Old Rhoynish, in High Valyrian, in what Old Tongue that she knows. Do not let us fail, she begs. All the Known World shall end if we fail today, please don’t let her fail and doom Alia to a short life of fleeing and fear.

There is no sunlight, but she feels it on the back of her neck. Warm and good, like soup and her children’s arms. And some of her fears leave her. She is the Lady Witch of Winterfell, the Joy of the Rhoyne—she helped bring magic back into the world, and now she will help shove some of it back down to the seven hells. If she dies, then she dies, but let the dead die with her!

All of the dragonriders take to the pitch-black sky. Beneath them is a sea of torches, a sea of the living. And just north, first shuffling then running, is an ocean of the dead. Rhaenys’s eyes widen. A million undead monsters; thousands of those icy white Others; mammoths and bears and ice spiders and hellhounds.

And on a dragon made of ice and cold and death, comes the Night King on swift wings.

They’re finally here.

“Gods have mercy,” Lysella breathes.

Mooncatcher screams a torrent of fire, and the other dragons do the same. Lighting erupts around them, and beneath her she hears the first charge of the living against the undead. At once, the darkness is striped with violet, with red, with blue and orange and gold and green and pale unearthly white. Mooncatcher roars flames towards the ice dragon, but even her dragonfire does nothing to the ice dragon’s glimmering wings. Instead it screeches and the air seems to freeze into pieces. Rhaenys presses her face and hands against Mooncatcher’s scales, and she swears she can hear strands of hair freezing and snapping off.

She bids Mooncatcher to swoop flow. They burn a moonlight path through the dead—on and on the fires stretch until even Mooncatcher’s furnace must rest. And yet for the hundreds they burn, there are thousands more. _A million dead!_ How can one even envision the sight of a million enemies coming to murder all of Westeros?!

Above her, she sees Nyserix and Dreamfyre in vicious combat with the ice dragon. Not a dance, but a brawl, teeth and claws tearing and flames shooting every which way. The Yi Tish dragons swell, then scream, and the skies tear open rain. Water! Rhaenys spreads her hands wide to the freezing winds and sings. She sings and she begs the song to carry to the other water witches under siege.

They hear her, and the rain pouring down is met by the Fever river surging up to flood the undead army. Water alone cannot kill a monster that needn’t take breath. But Mooncatcher and Rhaelaxes dive bomb and set flame to the water. The flooded fields boil, and with the magic of dragons and water witching, swathes of wights and wraiths meet a final death. A host of Others throw ice lances towards Mooncatcher, vicious and cold and unimaginably fast.

Perhaps if Rhaenys hadn’t cut her teeth on the scorpions of Kings Landing, those lances would strike into her dragon-child and its cold would leech out Mooncatcher’s heartbeat. But she is fast, she is the wind and the rain. And Rhaelaxes, with Lysella screaming on her back, does not hesitate to set flame to the Others. They writhe and take long to die. But die they do.

Something explodes above them, and broken sheets of freezing ice rain down in giant chunks. It crushes men, and Mooncatcher’s wing is bent horribly by a passing iceberg. Mooncatcher shrieks and Rhaenys retreats. But she notices that where she flies, the waters are strongest. She is a conduit of the witching—she cannot escape the fighting entirely, can she? It is madness, but she bids Mooncatcher to land to the west of the battle. Hellhounds howl and shriek, and a clear dozen of them charge for Mooncatcher. Mooncatcher, with her injured arm folded beneath her body, lashes out with her tail and fire. Rhaenys draws the waters from the sodden earth and swamps of the Neck to pull the hellhounds to a watery grave.

They are on a shallow hill, and with Mooncatcher’s height Rhaenys has some vantage point over the hordes of living and dead. She can see the damage the rune-carved weapons of dragonglass and Valyrian steel do to the undead. And when the living fall, they burst into flames and destroy the wights who have carved their breath from their bones. Brienne and Arya charge an ice spider ripping men’s heads from their shoulders. And together with Nymeria they stab their swords into the ice spider’s gullet and tear free its icy entrails. A hellhound leaps onto Brienne and bites at her face, but Rhaenys shrieks and the waters on the battlefield twist around the hellhound and pull it away from Brienne. Arya stabs the monster dead, and cuts off its head for good measure. Arya burns herself with frostbite on her arm, but she will recover, as will the terrible bite torn out of Brienne’s cheek.

Rhaenys nocks her arrows. Her bow is made of goldenheart, the greatest in the world. And her arrows shoot long and true to the Other commanding nearby wights. One arrow between its shoulder blades. It screams and faces Rhaenys. One arrow to his lower stomach. It runs forward and creates a lance. One arrow to its shoulder. It throws the lance and Mooncatcher bats it away with her tail. One arrow to its throat. Cracks appear over its body like a fracturing ice lake. One arrow between its eyes and it shatters, as do the wights it controlled.

Rhaenys sees the transition between the first volley of men, and the second. Those who survived the first attack retreat into the Moat, where boiling water in the moat and thousands of protective runes carved into the walls ward off the undead. Rhaenys coaxes Mooncatcher back into the air; she hopes her wing isn’t broken. They land in the courtyard by Edwin, still in the weirwood tree. He is grimacing, and his eyes leak red tears.

“I’m telling the trees to fight,” he says. Rhaenys slides down from Mooncatcher’s back and she inspects her wing. The finer bones of her wing are fractured, but the major bones are intact, as is the leathery membrane. Mooncatcher cries out and Edwin says, “The trees have magic, you know. More magic than we’ll ever know.”

“And will it help us?” Rhaenys rubs a healing poultice onto the injured wing. She can do nothing for the bones, but she will not see her dragon-child in pain.

“If nothing else, it will give us the time to retreat.” That is a fool’s hope; there can be no retreating from this.

Rhaenys watches the skies for flashes of dragons. Nyserix is still fighting, Dreamfyre and two of the Yi Tish dragons are raining hell and high water on the dead, but where is Rhaelaxes and the other Yi Tish dragon? Rhaenys runs into the halls of the Moat and calls for a passing servant. “Is Lady Myranda Manderly available?”

Randa is, and she and Rhaenys finger paint with blood onto Mooncatcher’s wing. Healing runes, written in High Valyrian, and soon Mooncatcher shifts away from their attentions and preens at herself. “There we are, the lady restored,” Randa chirps. Even with the end of the world tearing into bloody pieces at their door, she is as cheerful as ever. Rhaenys envies her.

“How is the first volley? Were there many survivors?”

“Quite a few, quite a few. And now that we know how the dirty bastards fight, we have a better grip on things.” Randa hands her a wrapped parcel of bread filled with gooseberry jam. Rhaenys’s stomach growls and Randa laughs. “We can’t have our Lady Witch fainting on the battlefield! Take care of yourself out there,” and Randa’s smile dims. “If you see my Theomore, yell at him to come back.”

Rhaenys promises. She and Mooncatcher return to the air after she scarfs down the bread. As she flies, she sees Rhaelaxes land in the courtyard. Lysella’s metal arm is crusted in ice, as are Rhaelaxes’s wings, and she’s yelling—perhaps for a hammer to chisel herself and her dragon free. Nyserix remains in the skies, and Mooncatcher flies up to meet her. Rhaenys gasps to see the frostbite burning across Daenerys’s back and legs, burned straight through her furs and leathers. She yells at Daenerys to retreat but Daenerys just shakes her head and engages the ice dragon once more. Rhaenys understands Daenerys’s intent: if she keeps the Night King busy in the skies, he cannot attack the Moat directly.

Beneath them the second volley crashes against the wights, and their screams are a mumbling roar up here in the shrieking winds. Mooncatcher howls violet flames and they lick against the ice dragon. Yet it remains, cool and untouched, as is the Night King on its back. If even dragon fire cannot destroy the ice dragon, what will?

She fires a dragonglass arrow at it, and it shatters against the dragon. A Valyrian steel arrow bounces off of it to pierce someone’s eyes far below where she cannot see. And a silver arrow strikes between two of the scales on its belly.

The entire ice dragon shudders, and Rhaenys swoops low back towards the ground. She flies towards a tower of arches. Ygritte is among them, and Rhaenys yells at her, “Fire your silver arrows at the ice dragon above! I shall bring it to you!” Ygritte screams the same at the other archers, their voices so faint in the howling winds.

Nyserix bathes the ice dragon in flames and on that one little chink in the ice dragon’s magic, flames remain and burn at its unearthly flesh. It shrieks and rakes its icy claws down Nyserix’s back. Daenerys falls, a little speck of silver-gold in the darkness. Rhaenys screams and Mooncatcher flies up. By chance Rhaenys grabs onto Daenerys’s arm, and she is nearly torn from Mooncatcher’s back herself. But she maintains her balance, and drags Daenerys up in front of her. She is bleeding, and her lips are cold and blue.

Nyserix screams, horrible bloody screams that rend the air and bend the thunder around them. Nyserix’s jaws clamp down on the ice dragon’s neck. From across the field Dreamfyre flies up to claw at its wings, and Mooncatcher dares edge close enough to bite its tail. Then they pull it down, and the Yi Tish dragons swoop low to scream lightning into its eyes. They land in a great rumbling crash on the battlefield, right in front of the archer tower. “NOW!” Rhaenys screams at them.

The dragons fly away, and the arches fire silver arrows into the struggling ice dragon. It shrieks, it writhes and throws the Night King from its back. And with one final blast of fire, Nyserix catches all of the arrow wounds on fire. The ice dragon crackles, then explodes and disappears into frozen mist.

The Night King glares up at Rhaenys from his position on the ground. Then he turns towards the tower. Rhaenys gasps and yells at Shireen to save the archers. But Dreamfyre only has the time to gather a dozen archers atop her back before the Night King lays hands on the tower. It freezes over in black ice, and the unfortunate souls still on the tower freeze with it. Then the runes on their breast flash and they explode with fire. Ygritte shrieks from where a Thenn clings to her on Mooncatcher’s back. The wools and leathers on her legs are frosted away, and her legs are raw with terrible ice burns.

Rhaenys returns to the Moat and hands Daenerys off to Sarella and her healers. The Thenn carries a furious Ygritte directly towards the infirmary. “She’s still breathing,” Rhaenys babbles to Sarella, “but she’s so cold! And oh god, her back…”

Sarella gives her a critical once-over. “Take a rest, my lady.”

“But the Night King is—”

“The Night King will still be there no matter if you run yourself ragged and miscarry your babe. Now get yourself to the resting halls!”

And with that Sarella firmly leads her into the Moat’s great hall, where many survivors of the first and second volleys rest and eat, and where the warriors of the future volleys prepare for battle. Rhaenys is seated forcefully by the hearth, and Sarella threatens to thrash her senseless if she rises again until breakfast meal is served. Breakfast? What time, what day is it?

She shudders and feels her fingers and toes, hardly noticeable in the heat of battle but now aching and half-frozen, painfully thaw by the fire. She carefully holds a wad of warm wet cloth to her face and hisses. She is covered in little cuts from the ice—does she still have her nose?

“Rhaenys!”

Rhaenys looks up and Meera is at her side. There is gauze wrapped around her neck and her right arm is splinted. Rhaenys grabs her left hand. “Meera! I’m so glad to see you safe! Have you seen any of the other Starks?”

Meera smiles and there are tears in her eyes. “Robb just returned to the front lines after a stay here. Arya is in the infirmary for her injures, all of the direwolves are well as they can be.” Rhaenys’s heart slowly freezes over. What is she not saying? She demands Meera to say the truth, and Meera squeezes her hands. “Branda never returned from the first volley. And I…I retrieved Lord Benjen’s sword myself. Ice is safe with us and Lady Catelyn shall know of his bravery.” Rhaenys lets out a cry and turns away.

Benjen?! Not Benjen, surely?! That tall smiling man, always a jest or a story for his children, how he took her in as her own when her own father failed her—he cannot be dead! He cannot be! “Does,” Rhaenys coughs, “does Robb know?”

“Lord Benjen gave his life to save Robb’s.”

Rhaenys weeps for her husband and good father. Meera tucks herself into Rhaenys’s chair alongside her and shares some of her body warmth. “It will be alright, Rhae. I promise.”

“What if Lord Eddard dies too? Robb will lose both of his fathers then.”

“It’s our duty to sacrifice to save Westeros.”

Rhaenys hugs her close. “Where is your brother, Meera?”

“I’m not sure. Perhaps he is with Branda and they are biding their time in the swamps.” Meera smiles and kisses her cheek. “I’ll bring you some soup. You are our dragon lady, we cannot have you freezing.”

After she is fed and can feel all of her limbs again, Rhaenys makes a round through the halls and the rooms in the Moat. She spies Daenerys lying on her stomach with a pair of healers muttering about the terrible frostbite on her back and the hidden babe in her belly; a furious Lysella returning to battle as Aemon carries a frostbitten Shireen towards the hearths; thousands of soldiers and warriors cycling in and out of the Moat—she is surrounded by Nymeria, Summer and Bodi. She giggles as they nip and lick at her, and lets herself enjoy their attention. Branda must be back, as her direwolf never strays from her side. “Where is your Branda?” she asks Bodi. “In the infirmary?”

Bodi whimpers and lies down on the ground. No. No! Not Branda too! Rhaenys gets a grip of her emotions and heads back to the infirmaries. In the long host of halls crammed with bleeding and dying people, she searches their faces. She almost passes by Branda without knowing, as she too is lying on her stomach.

Rhaenys holds her hands to her mouth as she sees Sarella pour lukewarm water over Branda. A cluster of giant black quills stick out of her back, and the skin around the quills is frozen and blue. A sweaty and pale Ygritte, confined to a wheeled chair as both of her legs are set in thick layers of gauze, does her best to remove the quills along with another healer. “Ice spiders,” Sarella explains to Rhaenys. “The stories never say what to do after you’ve been hit with quills, as usually you drop dead.”

“Will she live?”

Sarella says nothing and Rhaenys flinches. Pain cramps around her stomach and clenches until she can catch her breath. She…she cannot be here. She cannot see another one of her family die. She kisses Branda’s cheek and her skin is ice. She nods at Ygritte; after everything, she does not want her dead either.

She tells Meera to stay with Branda, then returns to the battlefield, the Dying Fields where flares of fire still signal a death of Westeros’s army. Time loses meaning when she brings the water over the undead and boils them to ash. Time loses meaning when the sky is black and the air is cold and the dead swarm eternal. The Night King commandeers a giant ice spider the size of a hut and has a new strategy: ambush the archers and witches before they realize that death walks among them. And it is up to the remaining dragonriders—Daenerys is unconscious and one of the Yi Tish riders fell to an unknown fate—to root him out.

Bodies cycle in and cycle out of the fields. They collect usable arrow heads and weapons. More and more bodies burn, and the wights are moved down by shadow demons and snow spirits and the Fever river. On and on it goes.

Rhaenys wonders if she will go mad in the skies above the Dying Fields, surrounded by constant carnage and death and darkness. She sees so many men die before she can save them, entire bloodlines wiped out by mammoths and Others. A giant smashes both Jon and Smalljon Umber into the wet earth. Hellhounds rip Yohn Royce and three of his sons to pieces. An undead horse drags Willas Tyrell along the ground until he is dead. An Other spears Mance Rayder through the neck. Their helpful allies from across the seas meet brutal deaths and the cries of the dying rend the air.

And through it all, Rhaenys cannot find Robb. Would they tell her if he died, or would they hide it from her to keep her spirits high? She doesn’t know, and her body wrack with pain and cold. Will she know if he dies? Will her heart burst into flames?

The Night King rallies another volley towards the Moat. Rhaenys and Lysella swoop from above and rain fire down upon them. The wights are so easy to burn, easier than men. But the monsters and Others resist their flames and launch their attacks. More lances, more quills, more vicious screams that make Rhaenys dizzy and blind. Mooncatcher takes a lance through her tail and is forced to land so that she may set herself on fire and drive back the growing ice. On the ground, Rhaenys is overwhelmed by the stench of dying and dead. She raises her arms and completes graceful hand sigils. A forefinger pointed down as the others fan upwards, palms curling up and around the wrist—the water trapped within the earth rises up and pulls the blood and other fluids away. It’s too cold for Rhaenys’s nose to bleed, small mercies.

Tyene is near her, swathed in red and white silks. Rhaenys yells at her to get onto Mooncatcher’s back before the Night King comes. Tyene just smiles, and says, “Tell my father I love him! And that I shall see him again in Nymeria’s palace, alongside Obara!” Then she runs directly into the volley.

In a rush of wind, a great whirlwind of flames consumes a host of wights and wraiths. She hears Tyene’s voice, speaking in a dread language unknown to her ears. It reminds her of the Sorrows, and Rhaenys can only watch as the whirlwind grows higher and hotter. It cannot last! It cannot hold! And it collapses upon itself and torches an acre’s worth of the fields. At least two dozen Others die and near a thousand wights and monsters with them. Rhaenys chokes on the ash in the air, all she can see is ash like snow. Mooncatcher takes to the skies, and from the thunderous clouds Rhaenys sees a little scrap of red silk, singed and melted, flutter by in the wind. She screams and hides her face into her dragon’s scales. Rhaenys screams for a long time.

She flies towards the sea, pulled along by Mooncatcher’s injuries and Rhaenys’s desire to take a breath not filled with ash and blood. The clouds suck the winds with a roar and she sees ships bobbling like apples in the rough seas below. Far to the distance, she sees Viserion raining hellfire onto strange dark figures in the dark seas. Are Viserys, Asha and Qarl safe? Where is Oberyn? Did he feel yet another one of his daughters die? Where is Robb? Where is—

From behind her, a lance flies. Then the air seemed filled with ice and doom. Mooncatcher melts most of them with her flames and rises higher into the storm. Electricity sharpens on Rhaenys’s tongue and hair, and she bids Mooncatcher to return to the Moat. But Mooncatcher keeps flying, tumbling, rolling, roaring flames at the Night King below. She hears a Yi Tish dragon roar, and she wears she can hear it roar for her to flee. Flee! FLEE!

And then lightning explodes all around her.

Rhaenys falls from her dragon. The sensation of falling from such an incredible height is so alien that she laughs at first. Then she shrieks, because she’s falling into the ocean and she’s going to die! Mooncatcher cannot catch her, she is already gone she is—

She is a fool! Did Oberyn not tell her to let her fears guide her, not control her?! She claps her hands together and sings a chord of an entire song layered into one syllable. The sea is not an river, but all rivers lead to it—it bends to her will with a blood sacrifice. And there are so many bleeding dead in the Dying Fields, it gives her magic a macabre boost. Water rushes up to meet her, catch her, pull her down slowly into the deep. The water is shockingly cold, so cold she just blinks instead of swims.

The oceans of her childhood were always still beneath the waves, still and sterile and sweet. Yet here, Rhaenys sees a battle not meant for human eyes.

Mermaids with stark white skin black scales ride dolphins with long crystal horns, and they spear at an undread kraken. The kraken is so large Rhaenys cannot see where the writhing tentacles end and begin. It wrestles with both a ship above, and a long serpent—a sea dragon—and the kraken is mottled blue and gray. It’s undead, it’s an abomination, and every creature from tiny little sea fairies with crowns of coral to hammer headed sharkmen and their tridents of silver rush to kill it. Destroy it, and the undead leviathan slashing undersea warriors to pieces with its pronged tail.

Rhaenys just watches. She can’t breathe, and it’s too cold to think. She remains suspended in that strange moment, seeing those silver tridents flash and imagining a man with silver hair wield a silver trident of his own. But not a trident, a sword with runes in dragonglass carved on it with care, with love…

A mermaid swims up to face her. Her face is beautiful, with her wide set eyes vibrant black and her pouting pale mouth full of sharp teeth. She runs a webbed hand over Rhaenys’s diadem where her black oil-slick pearls remain, and the mermaid smiles. Her eyes are the same color of those pearls gifted to Rhaenys so long ago, and indeed those pearls glimmer at her ears, her throat, the sharp spines of her tail. She presses her mouth to Rhaenys’s and blows air into her aching lungs. Then she grips Rhaenys tight around the arms and the sea surges upward.

Rhaenys gasps for air when they breech the surface, and the mermaid drags her through the water towards a longship. Men yell and pull Rhaenys aboard; Rhaenys can only cough her thanks to the mermaid who returns beneath the sea clutching one of Rhaenys’s pearls.

“Rhaenys?!”

Rhaenys looks up at Asha, covered in sea salt and guts of fell sea creatures. Asha helps Rhaenys to her feet and pulls off her sodden cloak. “What are you doing in the middle of the ocean?!”

“F-fell.”

“And lived?!” Asha barks laughter, and then screams at her men, “The kraken is dead ahead! Spear it through its slimy core! Oh, my darling niece, to fall from a dragon and be saved by a sea maid—there will be songs written about you.” Asha brings her into her little cabin and strips her of her clothes. She throws a mass of towels upon Rhaenys, who still coughs and sputters out sea water. “You’re taller than me, aye, and your babe is ready to pop out, but I’ve clothes somewhere in here.”

The shudders and groans. Asha tells her to remain inside, before drawing her sword and charging into the battle. Rhaenys watches from the door as the ship pierces its Valyrian steel bow straight through the undead kraken’s head, and Asha slashes and hacks at its tentacles. A tentacle lands before Rhaenys, sucking and seeking. She calls at Mooncatcher to come down now and retreats into the cabin.

Outside she hears the kraken thrash and Asha tell her men to keep steady and Mooncatcher screaming somewhere far away. She sits on the bed and feels her child kick beneath her hands. Slowly, carefully she towels herself dry and redresses in a simple shift. If she survives this ship and a flight back to the Moat, she can dress properly. She shudders, coughing and miserable. At least the air here is clean and salty, instead of stifled with ash.

Does Oberyn know his daughter is dead?

Does Catelyn know her husband is dead?

Mooncatcher finally lands on the ship. Rhaenys climbs back onto her back, wracked with shivers. She calls down to Asha, who spears her sword through the very eye of the kraken. “S-stay s-safe!”

“And double for you! Now get gone!”

Mooncatcher flies back towards the Moat and it takes everything Rhaenys has to not tumble from her back. She has never known such cold in her life, it burns at her like dragonfire and she fears she will lose her fingers, her toes, all her limbs. Can Master Mott fashion her a prosthetic body? Will her babe freeze in her womb?

A gust of freezing wind blows over her and she bursts into tears. Mooncatcher howls and lands, curling around Rhaenys. No! They need to get to the Moat! But Rhaenys can’t tell her, she can hardly breathe. Someone calls to her, and Rhaenys tries to look towards the sound. Oberyn? It’s Oberyn, and he cradles her to his chest like she’s just a girl of four and he’s leaving Westeros forever. Except then he smelled of sandalwood and blood oranges. Now, he smells of blood, so much blood. Rhaenys looks down and sees how she’s already soaked in it. “Uncle?”

“Don’t worry about me,” he says. His voice is wet. “Come, the Moat is just a few minutes from here. Let’s…let’s go.”

And he stumbles towards the Moat with her. Rhaenys looks past the swell of her belly and his arms, and sees his guts trailing behind him. Someone’s gutted him. Mooncatcher howls and sets something on fire behind them, and the terrible shrieks of ice spiders burning behind rend the air. Perhaps the spiders overwhelmed him and prepared to eat his insides. His insides are on his outsides. Rhaenys cries, “You’re hurt! Let me down! Uncle!”

“Everything is fine,” he breathes. His eyes stare straight ahead, possessed by a power Rhaenys hasn’t had to learn yet. “I failed your mother, I failed your brother. I will not fail you.”

Rhaenys can’t walk, and she shivers in his arms uselessly. Uselessly! Her uncle is dying and all she can do is shiver and be weak! She forces her arms to move, and clings to him in the best hug she can give. “I love you,” she stutters you. “You cannot fail me. You never have. Or Mama and Aegon.” He kisses her forehead and his lips are bloody. “Tyene loves you too. She waits for you with Nymeria.”

“And I shall be glad to meet her and Obara and my sister soon. Will you be ok without me, my little sunbeam?”

She squeezes her eyes shut. Her tears burn down her cheeks. “I will. I will be.” He stops and sways before the entrance to the Moat. People scream to see them and rush towards them, calling for a healer. Oberyn sinks to his knees. Rhaenys kisses his frozen cheek. She says, “Beron sounds like Oberyn, don’t you think? I hope he is just like you.”

Oberyn smiles and gives Rhaenys to a healer. “I love you,” he says. And then he falls over dead, and becomes his own pyre.

Mooncatcher lives, as she comes to roost on one of the towers in the Moat. Rhaenys can feel her, just as she can once again feel the heath return to her body. “You’re lucky to keep your nose, as well as your spine,” Sarella hisses at her. “Falling hundreds of feet into the ocean! Do you not have a care for yourself, my lady?!”

“I’m sorry,” and that’s all she can say. Sarella berates Rhaenys for her wretched stupidity, her foolhardy battle plans, her inability to care for herself…Sarella grieves, and Rhaenys grieves with her. Oberyn is dead. Tyene is dead. Benjen is dead. Branda and Daenerys are dying. “Have…have you seen Robb?”

“If I do, I’ll tell you straight away.” Sarella glares down at Rhaenys. “You are going to stay here, you understand me? Lead from the commander’s table! Lead the provision train! But do NOT leave this Moat again! Do not…do not make me bury another set of bones…”

Rhaenys lets Sarella weep into her arms for a while. Then she rests in her wonderfully warm bed, and even with the fear still winding in her veins she is exhausted and falls asleep. She awakens with her head in Viserys’s lap. He’s speaking with Asha and Qarl, all three of them with raw red faces from the icy winds and salt still clinging to their cloaks. They sound quite cheerful, so they must have been victorious in their battles. And Viserys’s left arm is missing beneath the elbow, Rhaenys dimly notes. Where did it go? Where’d he lose it? Another prosthetic to be made, to match Qarl’s missing leg—it seems to have simply disappeared from his upper thigh. How bizarre. Both of Asha’s arms are in casts but perhaps they can be saved…Viserys smiles down at her. “The bards are already singing of the Lady Witch and the Sea Maid, my dear niece. Is it true you bartered your life with a pearl from your diadem and a kiss?”

“The kiss of life,” Rhaenys whispers. Her entire body aches as if someone’s thrashed her with a sack of rocks. “I’m so happy to see you three alive.”

“We heard about your losses.” Qarl presses a kiss to her cheek. “I’m so very sorry, Rhaenys.”

“I have good news, at least.” Asha grins. “It seems your man has been very busy. I heard he and Domeric Whitestark personally faced against the Night King, and lived.”

Rhaenys struggles to sit up. “He lived?! Where is Robb?!”

“Hush, he’s still on the battlefield. The story goes that he and Domeric were surrounded by the undead, pressed back to back, overwhelmed by death and doom—but then Robb kissed his wedding ring and swore that he promised to return to your arms hale and whole. And they fought their way out of the crowd, slashing and stabbing, Warriors reborn in flesh! And then they faced the dread Night King, and locked their swords against his terrible greatsword. He first tried to cut them down, then tried to change them into Others, but neither of them accepted. And then Mooncatcher bathed the Night King in flames, and carried Robb and Domeric safely to the Moat.”

Rhaenys gasps to hear Viserys’s tale. He is the type to exaggerate, her uncle is a bard at heart—but is it true? Did Robb warn off death because she made him promise to live? Rhaenys sniffles, then laughs and cries. She cries and laughs. Robb lives, and she’s been very remiss in her own promise to him, hasn’t she? Such a fool she is, she wishes he could be here to shake his head at her.

“Rest, dear niece. The war is winding to its inevitable end, and I would not see you die before it.” And they take their leave to let Rhaenys dream of her children, of the mermaid, of the silver haired man. Of Robb.

When she awakens again, she is strong enough to get to her feet. Hunger propels her to the great hall, and she eats thick lentil and pork soup with her soldiers. All of them are worse for wear, but they live. She spots Brienne and asks, “How are you? I saw you slay an ice spider, but that was…gods, I don’t know what day it is.”

“Neither do I, my lady.” Her cheek is shiny red, to fade to pink in the coming moons. Rhaenys asks if it hurts and Brienne blushes. “You don’t need to worry about me, my lady. Arya already has that covered.” Arya herself returns with two bowls, and all three of them squeeze together, Arya half on Brienne’s lap and her uninjured arm slung around Rhaenys’s shoulder.

“Are you alright, Rhae? I heard you fell from a thousand feet.” Arya searches her for injuries. Truth be told, Arya herself is worse for wear with her split ear and frost-burnt arm. Rhaenys assures her that she is fine and asks about their loved ones. Arya sighs, and rests her cheek on Rhaenys’s shoulder. “Branda…she didn’t make it.”

Branda is dead. The horrors will never cease.

“It’s—it’s ok. I was with her when she…passed. She wasn’t in pain.” Arya’s voice, normally the soul of mischief, is subdued like the mist frosting on the Moat’s windows. She sounds like she’s been kicked in the chest. Rhaenys herself can hardly breathe from the vice of grief squeezing at her lungs. “She’s with Papa and Ned.”

“Oh gods, Ned died too?”

“He died killing the monster that got her. It and about…what was it Brienne? Twenty hellhounds?” Brienne nods and Rhaenys cannot imagine sweet Ned Umber Stark cutting down a ice spider and twenty hellhounds before succumbing. What pain he must’ve been in, to be widowed at seven-and-ten. Arya looks up at her. “Sea Dragon Point is far away. Who will live with Cathy?”

“Cathy will live with us, when this is all over.” A ruling lady and an orphan before her first year of life. Branda and Ned are dead! Benjen is dead! Oberyn is dead! Rhaenys inhales and exhales sharply. “Do you need anything, Arya? What can I do to help?” Rhaenys lost Aegon when she was but three years of age, and the rest of her half siblings still breathe. Arya has lost her father and sister in the same battle. Rhaenys cannot fathom the strength keeping her back straight.

Arya shakes her head. “Not now. When…when this is over, maybe.” She asks Brienne, “It should be over soon, shouldn’t it? How many fighters are left?”

“The last reckoning was at 30,000.”

Rhaenys opens her mouth, then closes it. 30,000, out of 345,000.

She can’t say anything to that.

There are no words.

Instead, she helps braid Arya’s choppy hair back from her face, and lets them both feel the babe kicking, and finishes her soup. She wants Robb. No one can tell her where he is, and she will have to seek him out herself.

She finds Aemon slumped against a wall. Dark Sister hangs from his fingers, covered in brown blood and blue ice. “Aemon?”

“Shireen is hurt,” he chokes out. “She—she was struck down from Dreamfyre. She was so cold in my arms, and she hasn’t woken up yet.” He looks up at her and his eyes burn like coals. “We need to kill the Night King. This will never end until he is killed—then the Others will have no leading force, and they will scatter to the wind.” He gazes at nothing. “Like so much ash and dust.”

“We’ve been trying, Aemon. He won’t burn in dragonfire, and if it takes a dozen dragonglass arrows to kill one Other it will require a lot more for him—”

“Fine then! Then we get a thousand arrows and nail him to a tree!” He holds his hands to his face. “Shireen is hurt. Sella and Viserys are hurt. Dany…Dany is going to die. Her entire back and legs are frost-burnt and the healers can’t stop it. And if she’s—if she’s going to die, and her babe with her, I want her death to be worth it. So many people have died! So many!” He sobs and she sobs along with him.

“Then we kill him.” Rhaenys retrieves her bow from where it’s stored beneath her bed, and dresses herself in twice as many furs and leather as she had when the battle began. She doesn’t know what day it is, how long it’s been, if the world’s ended already outside these walls. But Robb is out on the Dying Fields with the Night King, and she will aid him. She will aid her brother in killing the threat against their kingdom. “And we must be smart about it. It took silver killing the ice dragon, perhaps he needs silver as well.”

Aemon snorts, and pats a silver brooch at his neck. A gift from Shireen from their wedding day. “I will gladly stab this through his heart if need be.” He blinks. “Wait, aren’t you supposed to stay inside?”

“I want Robb. He is out there, and he’s been out there more than I have if the stories are true.” She steels her spine and gaze. “I made him swear to return to me. If he’s lost his way back, I will go out and bring him back.”

He nods. And together they mouth Mooncatcher. Ghost clambers up with them, his white muzzle still stained with the brown blood of the dead. Mooncatcher takes flight quickly and silently. And to Rhaenys, the fields seem practically empty. How many thousands have burned away to leave behind merely bones?

The Night King is at the heart of the fields, in the constant fog and ice that surrounds him. Mooncatcher rains fire down upon him, and Rhaenys uses every single silver arrow she has. Thirty of them, every shot ringing true. Yet when he steps through the fire, only half have penetrated his thick blue skin. And with his white blood staining his hands, he shrieks something in his foul dead language.

The ice in the air condenses and smashes down upon them. Mooncatcher lands hard and her wings fracture with harsh snapping sounds that make Rhaenys nauseous. Yet she takes the brunt of the impact anyway, protecting her riders from further harm. Ghost howls, and from the distance Rhaenys hears Grey Wind howl. Grey Wind! _Robb!_

“Flee!” she tells Mooncatcher when she is on the ground. “Go back to safety! I cannot bear your death!”

Mooncatcher refuses to return, not until Rhaenys screams at her to be gone. Then her dragon limps away into the sky, calling out for her siblings. Before her and Aemon stands the Night King. Ghost growls, and attacks. Aemon unsheathes Dark Sister and joins his direwolf. Rhaenys steps back, singing to the waters and the rivers and even the snow in the air. Trip the Night King, she beseeches the water. Make unsteady his steps! And at the back of her mind, the Song of Sorrows buds. If there is nothing left for the army of the living…if there is no one else left to stop him…what is her life weighed to that of her children in Dorne?

She curls her fingers into careful sigil, she thrusts them at her hip forward. Water condenses at the Night King’s feet. She shimmies her arms up higher, higher, higher until he is weighed down in water. Her nose bleeds and he boils. Yet even with the boiling water shrieking and steaming at the wounds in his chest, he keeps battering at Aemon.

Aemon is an excellent swordsman. But even he must go on the defenses against the Night King, who wields a blade as translucent and pale as milkglass. Every clash of Valyrian steel against the milkglass blade sounds like icebergs shattering, like thunder breaking in waves. Again and again their swords clash. Behind her Robb rides on Grey Wind through the mist and ash, but he is not fast enough. The waters beneath their feet slash and drag at the Night King, but they are not strong enough. The very roots of trees and plants twist around his legs and anchor him in place, screaming in Edwin’s voice to be still, but they are not firm enough.

No, the Night King is death himself. He has come to destroy all of Westeros, and one mere king cannot stop him, no matter the magic trying to keep him at bay. He stabs Ghost through his gut clean through to the ground. He breaks Aemon’s shield arm in three places. He rips Dark Sister from Aemon’s grasp.

And with a brutal thrust, the Night King drives Dark Sister through Aemon’s chest.

The Valyrian steel slides clean through his back, and Rhaenys can’t hear her own screaming over the howling wind and ice.

No!

No!!

It cannot be!!

He cannot kill Aemon!!

Aemon opens his mouth, gurgling blood as the Night King grins and twists the sword deep. “NO!” Rhaenys screams. _“NO!”_

Aemon grips onto Dark Sister’s hilt, he grips onto the Night King’s hand even as his fingers blacken and freeze. His dark grey eyes lock with the Night King, and he says something strange. “That makes you the promise,” he says. Then the wind shrieks, and there’s smoke billowing from Aemon’s chest—

He bursts into flames.

The Night King screeches and tries to remove his hand, but he is frozen in place with the vines and the water doing their magic. The flames spread, engulfing both Aemon and the Night King. Rhaenys sees her little brother, her king, rip the sword out of his chest. The sword glows so brightly that she must shield her eyes. Such light, such heat—is that the Lightbringer from Rhaegar’s prophecies? Is this the song of ice and fire finally sung into life? Or is this Aemon’s spirit, erupting from his body to scorch the evil that would bring death to Westeros?

Aemon buries that sword in the fell king’s heart, just as he did to Aemon. Except this time, the Night King cannot escape. Rhaenys falls to her knees as the Night King shatters like a crackling glacier turning to melt, like a glass goblet thrown against a wall.

The Night King explodes, and Aemon falls to the ground. He is black and blue with broken ice, and no steam rises from his mouth.

Rhaenys screams.

Rhaenys screams and the world around her begins to rot with ice and death. The very snow beneath her feet blackens to foul slime. She runs towards Aemon’s body, even as the air itself seems to decay. “AEMON!” She grabs at him, then pulls her hands away as her gloves wrinkle and rot off from her hands. “Aemon!!”

His face is so peaceful, encased in ice it is. She dare not touch him with her bare hands, not when her shoes crumble and her skirts mildew. He…he cannot be dead. He cannot! He is her brother and she cannot lose him too, after everyone else!

She hears behind her Arianne and the Orphans singing, a terrible song in the Old Tongue that no Rhoynish water witch has ever sung before. Robb and Grey Wind ride to her. Robb’s face is covered in blood and snow. He grabs Dark Sister, he drags her onto Grey Wind’s back. “We need to leave now!”

Pain lances through Rhaenys as if someone’s stabbed her. It contracts and swells, mere moments apart. “We can’t leave him here!”

“Arianne is going to break the Neck! We’re going NOW!”

“Aemon!” Rhaenys cries for him, she holds onto her aching stomach and wails for her brother. Her brother is still there! Her little brother! They cannot abandon him to rot at the bottom of the swamp! Ghost curls up in his death throes by Aemon’s side as the water in the air condenses into an iron grip and magic sets all of Rhaenys’s hair on end. Ghost remains with Aemon as she and Robb make their escape, as the survivors flee the remaining howling Others—

Rhaenys throws her head back and wail-sings along with the other witches. Every surviving witch and sorcerer in Westeros screams along with the song, the hammer of waters gifted to Nymeria’s children. In her mind’s eye, she sees Mother wield a hammer alongside a child of the forest the color of a weirwood tree. They grow to unimaginable size, their heads breaking through the sun and moon and their feet rooted in the core of the earth. Do the others see them too? She swears she can see Oberyn atop their shoulders, telling Rhaenys to not be afraid. They heave, and Rhaenys screams the final word. **_“Ādrenċ!”_**

**_DROWN!_ **

And with a terrible crash the Neck of Westeros breaks like Aemon’s body, like the Night King. Magic punches down and crushes the earth into so many pieces that watching it makes Rhaenys vomit in terror. Grey Wind runs as fast as he can, all the survivors do, even the Others try to outrun their fate. The trees themselves throw the living away from the crushing magic. Grey Wind whimpers and Robb prays feverishly for deliverance and any living or undead creature within the Neck is destroyed. Entirely, utterly destroyed—even death itself must be destroyed. Even death itself must yield to the hammer of waters, the magic of a thousand realms pressing down against the Neck and demanding it to _cease._

When Grey Wind finally comes to a stop near Moat Cailin’s walls, Rhaenys throws herself to the ground. She shrieks, she wracks with pain as she is split in half and gutted. There is blood, so much blood, so much pain she can hardly see. Is this what Oberyn felt when ice spiders gutted him? Is this what Branda and Ned felt when ice spiders and hellhounds savaged them to death? Aemon felt as a sword was punched through his chest? Robb grabs onto her hands and sobs, “Just breathe Rhaenys, just breathe! Please, hold on!”

Rhaenys writhes against his shoulder. She wails for Aemon. She wails for Oberyn. She wails for Benjen, and Branda, and Ned, and Tyene, and every life that’s slipped through her fingers. How many men and women died today for the sake of the whole world? How long will it be until she joins their shadowy ranks at the bottom of the Neck? Rhaenys screams, and the survivors in the Dying Fields scream, and her husband screams and her siblings scream and the dragons scream and the very water in the earth and seas and sky scream. The sound drives terror into the very core of her being. It’s the sound of misery, of pain.

It’s the sound of the world ending.

She screams until her throat is raw, she cries until her tears run dry. Only then their daughter is born.

The babe is pale, pale as snow and frosted lace, with silver-gold hair matted to her head and eyes firmly shut. She is silent, and Robb rubs the babe’s back and begs for her to breathe. Just breathe, just one inhale and exhale. But the babe, so fretful and vibrant in Rhaenys’s womb, is silent and still in the waking world. Rhaenys runs her hand across her little cheek, feels how her warmth is already fading. She leans against Robb, and together they cradle their little babe in their arms. Their little daughter, born at the death of so many in her family and so many more in Westeros.

Rhaenys feels a terrible, mercury calm descend upon her. From the top of her head, dripping down her face to her stomach to her toes and fingertips. She is suspended in that feeling of liquid nothing, of quiet distilled into the cracks in her bones until she can no longer feel. It’s like being in the ocean again, and it would be so easy to drown in this feeling. They rock her. Robb’s face is broken grief, muted and quiet. He drowns and she drowns with him. Rhaenys sings in a flat voice that catches on the syllables.

_Where the north wind meets the sea,_

_there’s a mother, full of memory._

_Come my darling, homeward bound…_

She closes her eyes halfway, so that all she sees is their little baby suspended in the dark light. Her vision blurs, and she sees Geralt. Beron. Alia. Aegon. Rhaenys. Elia. She sees so many children, held by so many mothers. She sees her grandmother Loreza pat Elia’s tiny back, so tiny after only eight moons in the womb, until the babe cried and took breath. She sees Elia do the same for her when Rhaenys was sick as a little baby; she sees herself with Alia when her little girl was fraught with pain and poison. She sees Mother cradle her wild daughter and darkling daughter, bid them back to life. What can pay for a child’s life, other than a mother’s tears and blood? And Rhaenys has shed so much of both today, more than she ever thought possible.

 ** _For all is lost,_** the wind whispers in her ears, in a voice like Mama, like Oberyn, like Benjen, like Aemon. **_And all is found._**

Their daughter sputters, and coughs, and cries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *falls down dead*
> 
> I did it. I finally wrote the Battle for the Dawn. It’s like I’ve just summited Mount Everest, I’m not sure I actually did finish and this is all just me dreaming.
> 
> But yes, that was the Battle. The Night King is dead, not because of a Prince who Was Promised or because of Azor Ahai reborn or because of any other prophecy. He is dead because of a song of ice and fire, a song that many people in different lifetimes could have been. It could’ve been Lysella or Visenya; it could’ve been Alia; it could’ve been the child of a Volantene merchant and an Ibbenese sailor. But in this one is Aemon. And Aemon, along with literally hundreds of thousands, gave his life to defeat the Long Night. If anything else, the Night King became Azor Ahai when he pulled Lightbringer from Nissa Nissa’s chest, and that didn’t work out too well for him.
> 
> Aemon is dead, as are Oberyn, Benjen, Tyene, Branda—the list goes on. And from the start of my story, I knew that Aemon was going to die. Quite a lot else changed, and some people on the Death List got moved off in favor for others (I was going to kill Unnamed Stark Daughter but instead I killed Branda)…but poor Aemon was always going to be the mythic king whose death paved the way for enduring life. Not the worst death to have, but very tragic for the survivors.
> 
> Now Rhaenys, as she promised, will help Shireen and her unborn child rule what remains of Westeros. I have to impress upon you how catastrophic this battle was: out of the 320,000 Westerosi who fought in this battle, the majority of them men, something like…approx. 20,000 survived. 27,000 out of 345,000 total. Imagine WWI and WWII happening at the same time to Europe, that’s how bad the fallout will be. And it’s going to change the fabric of Westerosi society forever.
> 
> Shireen and Aemon finally had it out at the beginning of this chapter, while Ygritte just wanted to be left alone. While there were many echoes of Rhaegar, Elia and Lyanna within Aemon, Shireen and Ygritte, they are (they were) not the same. While history repeats itself, we aren’t necessarily doomed to it. And with Aemon’s death, I think that put a very firm nail in that doomed triangle.


	21. The Dawn

Rhaenys resurfaces to the sound of people sobbing in Moat Cailin’s halls. She looks up to see Robb whispering with Edwin, finally free from the weirwood tree. Her body absently hurts, in that hazy milk of the poppy way that takes the pain and sets it aside for now. The pain of her body, of her lungs…of—

Aemon is dead.

Oberyn is dead.

Benjen and Branda are dead.

Everyone is dead.

Rhaenys meets Visenya’s gaze, from where she floats above the heads of the people bustling in and out of the corridors. She phases through the wall to sit by Rhaenys. She looks like she’s but two-and-ten again, back when Rhaenys first married Robb. Entirely untouched by the years and innocent again, except for her one blood red eye. “I’m going away now,” she says. Her voice is as light and sweet as her childhood again, when she was a wind-swept shieldmaiden asking for sweets and songs. Rhaenys’s eyes fill with tears to hear her lovely Senya again, instead of the monster she became. Visenya smiles. “I will go to the edge of the world and you will grow these seeds. Edwin will help you.”

Seeds? Rhaenys looks down at her hands where white weirwood seeds spill from her limp fingers.

Visenya kisses her forehead. Her lips are cold and wet, like weirwood sap. “Farewell, sister. Tell Senya she did the right thing. Tell her that she didn’t deserve this—that none of you did.”

Rhaenys squeezes her eyes shut. She cries, until Robb holds a glass to her lips and whispers to her that everything will be alright. Then she drinks dreamwine and everything is quiet again.

* * *

Rhaenys lies in Robb’s arms. Arya rests her head on Robb’s thigh, Edwin curls around Rhaenys’s shoulder, Domeric twists around all their legs. Grey Wind and Nymeria and Summer and Cora pile at their feet. They stare at nothing.

“Someone needs to tell Sansa and Mother,” Edwin whispers.

“I think they already know,” Robb whispers.

Arya sniffles. Domeric silently gives her a handkerchief. Rhaenys marvels how the sun rises and sets like nothing’s happened. The babe sleeps in a makeshift cradle.

* * *

Rhaenys asks Sarella if she’ll ever be able to have children again. “The birth was…traumatic,” Sarella says. “No one can know exactly what the future holds and you’ve survived far worse. But perhaps this may be your last daughter, if only for your sake.”

The babe wriggles in her arms and Rhaenys cradles her close. Robb murmurs his apologizes in her ear about impregnating her too quickly after the twins, for her having to give birth on a battlefield, for everything out if their control. Rhaenys shushes him. Two sons, two daughters, all healthy and bright-eyed and alive. They need to be grateful.

Catelyn had two sons and _three_ daughters once.

* * *

“People of Westeros, of Essos, of Sothoryos, of the Summer Isles and the Tamilan Empire—we stand here today alive! We stand here today victorious! Let us weep for our fallen brothers and sisters, let us weep for the lives lost to defend the Living World from the undead. Let us mourn King Aemon, First of His Name, who gave his life to draw a burning sword from his chest and smite the Night King.

Let us mourn, then let us live. For we have won the right to live! To flourish and go forward! To raise our children without the fear of death creeping at the northern seams of the world! And aye, there be monsters in the world now. Not even the Battle for the Dawn has drawn the monsters and magic back from this world. But what is one wraith against the horrors we faced and survived?! What is a thousand wraiths against the armies we defeated?!

My beloved good sister Shireen, Stormbreak Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, shall lead Westeros to prosperity! She carries a child, the child of our futures! And my friends from across the seas, look to your leaders! Your friends! Your allies here in Westeros! I swear to you before the gods of all the world, that as long as the rivers run and dragons soar in the skies, we shall be united! We shall be victorious. We…we shall _live!”_

* * *

Rhaenys runs her finger over her babe’s cheek. She is still so pale, perhaps she will have as fair of skin as Sansa who glows in the sun and moonlight. And her eyes are dark, darker than any of her siblings were at birth. Perhaps she will have Arianne’s black eyes, or Aemon’s dark grey eyes.

Her heart weeps. _Aemon._ They have no body to bury, they have no final words to inscribe on his tomb. The trees of Moat Cailin still search for bones, but his may never be found. King for less than a year, king of a bloody civil war and the War of all the World—what will history say about her little brother? Will they treat him fairly? Will they remember his hopes and dreams, his follies and sorrows? What will they write about the Avenged Dragon, the Dragonwolf, the Savior of Ice and Fire, the thousands of other titles that will never sum up the man Rhaenys misses so dearly?

What about the rest of them? What about Oberyn and Tyene, Benjen and Branda? Daenerys clings to life and even if she lives she will never walk again. Eddard is still missing, as are Edmure, Jonnel and Robar. All of the Tyrell men who fought are dead, as are the Umbers and both branches of the Daynes. A hundred houses great and minor have lost all of their menfolk. For every woman who fought, four out of five died and half of those who live are missing limbs or eyes. The bones of the dead either are piled in the Moat or lie at the bottom of the Broken Neck for crannogmen and the trees to fish out.

What will history say about all of them? About the brave men and women who fought to save the known World from destruction, whose names already slip through the living’s fingers? What about Rhaenys, who despite it all lived?

Her daughter startles when one of Rhaenys’s tears drops onto her little face and squeaks a little yell. Rhaenys laughs at her infant anger and kisses the offending wetness away. “Fear not, my sweet. Soon you’ll come to love water as a second skin.”

She needs a name, Rhaneys knows. She and Robb thought to name her Eideen once, or maybe Selantha. But none of those names seem to fit now that all the wars are finished and Westeros is hollowed out. Those names are too sweet, too summery. Summer will not be coming for some years yet. Rhaenys carefully stands and winces at the agony between her legs. A bit of a shame she cannot have a son named Robin for Robb, so maybe she should name this girl Robin? Would that work?

She doesn’t know, and the odd sensation keeps her walking as if through a cloud. Rhaenys doesn’t know what comes next. What to name this child? When to return to Winterfell? How to repair the North? Who to trust with Shireen’s regency council for her unborn babe? Where to go next? Why to continue on at all, when the world’s fallen to pieces—

The babe at her breast snuffles, and Rhaenys sighs. This babe, her children are all reason to continue on. And first, she needs a name. She asks a surprised servant, “Where is Lord Robb? I wish to speak with him.”

“In his solar—my lady, you should be resting—”

“Aye, and I shall rest with him.” Rhaenys slowly walks to Robb’s solar, where he throws all his assorted papers aside in his hurry to rush to her side and seat her in a chair. He demands why she is up and about, and Rhaenys huffs. “Is it not enough that I miss your face? I feared that perhaps my thoughts were living dreams and you were gone away from me forever.” Like Oberyn, like Aemon, like Benjen. She reaches up and brushes her fingertips along a long cut that starts at his brow and slices down straight across his cheekbone and jaw. Already there are tiny little stitches and the stain of Sarella’s famous poultices. Perhaps he will not even scar…she wonders where he got this injury from to begin with…

Robb kisses her, once and twice and thrice again. They are soft kisses, the gentle press of lips and the silent breath shared between them. Then he rests his forehead against her and whispers, “I lived for you, just as I promised. Do not fear that I will never return for you.”

Rhaenys murmurs in reply, “And I lived as well. I will always seek your side, question not my will.”

The babe does her best to wriggle an arm free of her swaddling. She reaches up and grabs at Robb’s beard. Rhaenys smiles and says, “We need to name her. ‘Tis ill luck in Dorne to leave a child unclaimed for long, lest the djinn come and claim her for itself.”

Robb’s gaze softens. He sits next to her, and for a while they just sit by the father, looking down at their tiny daughter. How her tiny brow furrows, how she peers up at them with her dark eyes as imperious a gaze as a newborn can manage. “She will be a spitfire,” Robb muses. He holds his finger to her and smiles so sweetly when her tiny fist curls around it and drags it to her mouth. “You see that? Already I’m helpless to her.”

“If she’s anything like Alia, the North shall have another dragon-wolf to contend with.” Rhaenys sighs, her mind dipping into melancholy thoughts. “How am I to tell Alia that her grandfather is dead? Her uncles? I—I can barely say the truth myself—” and Robb holds her close as she trembles. “He was never supposed to die, Robb! Her was our king, he was supposed to actually enjoy his throne! And your father—both of your fathers! It’s unfair, Robb!”

He kisses her forehead. His cheeks are wet with tears, and she feels the way he shakes around her. “It’s unfair, I know. We can only take heart in that with their deaths Westeros is saved.”

Rhaenys sniffles, then cradles the babe closer. She mewls with her little infant voice and roots against her breast. “Westeros is saved, and this wee babe shall be a lady of it.”

He is quiet. Then he asks, “I know we agreed to name our children names of their own. But I was thinking of a way to honor the dead too. And Benjen and Aemon share a similar sound.”

Rhaenys recalls the naming customs of the Targaryens and the Starks. “Aemma is the feminine version of Aemon. Aenerys too. Benjen…it would be Jessa wouldn’t it? Or Berena.”

He runs a finger down their babe’s cheek. “What do you think about Jena, then? All of those names together?”

Jena. Little Jena Stark, Jenny of Winterfell and Westeros. Jena’s little fist clings to one of Rhaenys’s ringlets. Rhaenys smiles, and her heart melts. “I think that would be a lovely name.”

* * *

Rhaenys pushes open the door. Lyanna sits on her bed, hair uncombed and face unwashed. Her eyes are red but dry. She looks empty, as if she’s scooped out all her insides and left them on the battlements to dry. Rhaenys takes a seat in front of her. Lyanna stares at Rhaenys’s hands for a while, then finally meets her gaze. Rhaenys shivers; there’s not much left at all in her. “Aemon is dead,” Lyanna whispers. Her voice is raw and too weak to carry in the air, but Rhaenys is close enough to hear her grief.

“Did someone inform you?”

“No.” Lyanna looks down again. “That’s the first vision Melisandre ever showed me. The Night King stabbing through my son’s heart, and turning him to ice and rot.” Her shoulders shake and Lyanna clutches at her dress. “No matter what sacrifices we made, no matter what we planned, that vision never changed. The vision of his death, and _you,”_ her voice hisses, “stepping over our own dead bodies to become queen. Not until Aegon was born and we saw Azor Ahai destroying the armies of the dead with Lightbringer. Not until Aegon we saw your ambitions sated.”

Rhaenys leans forward. “You thought I wanted the throne? That ugly chair in that evil castle? No, Lyanna. All I ever wanted was my family. And you ruined that. Ruined me and Aemon.” She scoffs. “Azor Ahai—that false prophecy was never _Baelor’s_ fate to have. When Aemon died he burst into flames and ended the Night King.” Lyanna gasps. “What? Are you not pleased? Your precious promised prince became a king and died for his country!”

Lyanna sobs. “We thought—we thought to spare him. Rhaegar and I. We didn’t want him to die so brutally. We wanted a happier death for our son.”

“Poisoning him at his wedding is not a happy death!”

“Happier than the world ending around him!” Lyanna stands to her feet and points a shaking finger at Rhaenys. “Don’t you judge me, Rhaenys. You fed your own father to dragons, your hands are bloodier than mine!”

Rhaenys stands as well. “My monster of a father was going to execute you and marry me in your place!” Lyanna opens her mouth. Slowly she sinks back down, and her gray-streaked hair covers her face. “You little fool,” Rhaenys hisses at her bowed head. “Aemon died knowing his parents tried to kill him. His own mother! All for the sake of mistranslated words written down thousands of years ago!”

Lyanna shakes her head. “It was supposed to be Aegon.” She hides her face in her hands. “They—Melisandre and Rhaegar told me it was supposed to be Aegon!”

“And you listened to them?!”

“Yes! I did!” Lyanna glares up at Rhaenys. Her chest heaves and her face is wet with tears again, but the anger in her eyes burns like coals in the hearth. “I admit it! Is that what you want to hear, Rhaenys? I…I listened to them, and I watched people burn, and I poisoned my son and good daughter and your cousin and daughter. I was going to have you executed. And I did it knowing it would save Westeros, and save my son from a cruel fate.” She turns away. “It made so much sense at the time. And my sweet Visenya was with me every step of the way, how could we have been wrong if even she agreed for Aemon’s death?”

Rhaenys sits back down. She crosses her arms, and just stares at Lyanna. The fool. The absolute, naïve fool. “Aemon spent the last six years of his life afraid for you,” she tells Lyanna. “And the last of it was spent in pain and heartbreak, because you betrayed him in a way mothers should never betray their children. Explain to me how you saved him.”

Lyanna weeps into her hands. “I loved him from the day he took his first breath. He was my firstborn, my little Northern dragon, my boy. You—you cannot understand! You cannot! I had to kill him, I just had to! If you knew your Alia was to be skewered on a sword of death and decay, and you knew that your youngest child was meant to be the one to face their destiny, what would you have done?!”

Rhaenys holds her hands back from slapping Lyanna. “I would have told Robb to shake sense into me, and been honest with my family! You tried to have my brother, my good sister, my husband, my cousin’s daughter and _my own daughter_ killed, Lyanna! _You!_ The woman I loved as a second mother!” She grits her teeth. “I can hardly stand the sight of you! You—you were never supposed to be like this! Tell me what changed in those six years after I left the Red Keep!”

“I did!”

“No, you justified your actions! Tell me what happened!”

Lyanna holds onto her stomach. “Why does it matter?” The fight leaves her former stepmother. “Once this child is born you’re going to cut off my head. Let me die with my shame.”

“You owe it to us, Lyanna.” Rhaenys narrows her eyes. “You owe it to me, to Lysella, to Aemon’s ghost, to what’s become of Visenya, to poor little Baelor and the child in your womb. Tell me what happened to you, so I can make sure no other person dares walk your path again.”

Lyanna is quiet. Rhaenys wants to scream at her, beat her with her fists…but Lyanna is a husk of a woman. A shell of her former self. What good will it do to savage someone who is too afraid to accept her own failings? Eventually, Lyanna speaks. “When the dragons returned to life, it was proof that all of Rhaegar’s thoughtlessness and foolishness and cruelty was justified. I loved him, I had to forgive him. And he promised me that we would bring Westeros to a golden age. We would save Westeros, us and our Prince who was Promised.” She shudders. “Melisandre came and—you truly don’t understand. She showed us so many things in her flames, she made magic spark. She, she helped me conceive Aegon. She was everything, and Rhaegar and Visenya and I were so pulled into those flames. Into that truth.”

Rhaenys sighs. She covers her eyes. “Melisandre was a dangerous fanatic feared by other shadowbinders for her ability to inspire madness. Madness, Lyanna, this is all madness! All of the last six years!”

“It didn’t feel mad,” Lyanna says in a tiny voice. “It felt like everything we’ve ever dreamed of.”

“And now? Does it still feel that way?”

Lyanna stares at Rhaenys. She shrugs her limp shoulders. “It feels like I want to die. There is nothing left for me, and I’ve ruined all of it.” Her eyes fill with tears. “I—I tried to kill my own son, and he died thinking I hated him—oh gods!” and she weeps into her hands.

She weeps, that broken remnant of Lyanna Stark Targaryen. Nothing she can ever say or do will fix what she’s broken, so Rhaenys supposed that she’s entitled to her weeping. Like Alyssa’s Tears, never to reach the mountain vale bottom and free her from her torment…Rhaenys rises to her feet. She misses her children, she misses her husband, she misses her siblings. She will write to Sunspear and ask about Baelor, she decides. When he is older she will visit him often, and make sure he never turns out like his mother. Neither him nor his unborn sibling.

“What will you do with me?” Lyanna asks between sobs. “Will you cut off my head? Will you drown me? Aemon, he w-wanted you to drown me!”

“I’m going to banish you.” Lyanna looks up in shock. Rhaenys pulls out a handkerchief and flicks it to her. “When that child is born, you will sail to Essos and never return. No Blackfyres, no intrigues, not so much as a whisper of you. You will have no house. You will have no connection to the Seven Kingdoms. You will disappear from memory and be gone forever.”

“W-Why?”

“Lysella still has a remnant of love for you. And if I can spare Visenya the executioner’s blade, I can spare you too.” Rhaenys steps back towards the door. “I said it before. I loved you once, stepmother. You were all the kindness that Rhaegar never gave me in my youth. You taught me how to ride a horse and shoot an arrow—without those skills I would’ve died like your son. My daughter would’ve died in my womb. For that, you get to live.”

Another step, and she is at the door’s threshold. “But make no mistake, Lyanna Snow. Elia Martell’s ghost demands her due. If you ever so much as think about hurting my family again, there is nowhere on this green earth that you can hide.”

Then she steps out of the room and turns her back on her former stepmother.

* * *

Daenerys grits her teeth as they wheel her bed to the courtyard. Her back and legs are dressed in healing herb-drenched gauze, but Rhaenys can smell the sickly stench of pus in the air. Her wounds need to be cleaned again and the healers fear that her skin will never have to time to knit itself together and heal over the gaping wounds. Daenerys tells them that she’ll just commission a back of glittering Valyrian steel scales with rubies and dragonglass embedded in the metal. “I will not die before I see to Nyserix,” she swears at Rhaenys. “I will not die until they bring me back my husband! He left a child in me and he must see it born!”

The babe in Daenerys’s womb will not survive the full nine moons, as damaged as Daenerys’s body is. If they find Jonnel, perhaps they can mourn together—if they find him. They found Robar clinging to a tree and to life at the edge of the Broken Neck. He will live to be Lord Royce with his father dead, and he will live to sire children with Margaery, but he will never wield a sword again. Jonnel is still missing; every day that passes strange over the swamplands diminishes the chance of rescuing him. Edmure and Eddard’s bones wait for Roslin and Catelyn to claim.

The dragons have all survived, some more injured than others. Viserion lost an eye to an undead leviathan’s tail. Mooncatcher’s wings are in giant metal splints and hopefully they will heal correctly. Both Rhaelaxes and Dreamfyre have slowly oozing wounds over their bodies where their scales were shredded. The three Yi Tish dragons are diminished and dehydrated, their scales dull and flaking.

Nyserix…Nyserix lives, covered head to tail in terrible frost burns. Daenerys cries out for her dragon and reaches an arm up towards her, even as her shoulders crinkle and strain against their bindings. Nyserix crawls forward and presses her snout against Daenerys’s palm. Dragon and dragon-rider weep, and Rhaenys weeps as the sound is sorrow manifested.

“I’ll live for you, my child,” Daenerys sobs to Nyserix, sobs to the life that fades every day within her body. “I’ll make myself live. Your mother won’t leave you just yet.”

* * *

“I will name you Hand of the King,” Shireen says. “Or Queen, perhaps. I wonder what will happen if my child is born a girl, I assume the crown would go to you then?”

Rhaenys stares out the window. The burned bodies of those who died are arranged in the great courtyard for people to identify. Robb’s fingers still bleed from where he peeled off the burning runes from their breasts, but not as badly as before.

345,000 runes he carved to create fire. 27,032 runes he removed to spare fire.

27,032 survivors out of 345,000 lives from all over the Known World. The greatest army to have ever risen, reduced to a thimble. Rhaenys is still searching for Tyene’s bones, she fears she will never find it and Oberyn will go to the earth alone. Oberyn, Oberyn is dead, Benjen is dead, Branda is dead, Aemon is dead—

“Rhaenys?”

Rhaenys turns towards Shireen. What a lovely figure she makes in deepest black. Her eyes are swollen and red, but it just makes the blue of her irises that much clearer. Rhaenys doubts she looks half as lovely, with her distended stomach and pale skin like cheese. She shakes her head. Foolish thoughts, scattering like beans. If she is to be Hand of the King or Queen, she must act. “The vast majority of highborn fighting men in Westeros are dead. For once the smallfolk might actually recover before the gentry and nobility do, since we had the farmers and crofters go south with the women and children to Dorne. By the Andal and Northern laws, many houses have gone extinct.” Shireen sighs and Rhaenys crosses her arms. “By the Dornish laws, all these houses still exist with female heads who may marry younger sons and lesser bloodlines to carry on their names.”

Shireen raises her eyebrows. “You want to change the inheritance laws of Westeros?”

“Who is alive to tell me no?” Rhaenys’s question lingers in the air like pyre smoke. “Damn the traditions. Over 300,000 people died to save Westeros, the least we can do is make sure Westeros remains after their sacrifice.”

Shireen rests her cheek in her palm. “Equal inheritance for every soul in Westeros. Good Queen Alysanne must be smiling down from the seven heavens.”

“Aye, and Princess Nymeria too.” Rhaenys sits down by Shireen and pours her a cup of lemon tea. “I’ll figure out the paperwork. Or more likely, I’ll have Wylla figure out the paperwork. Give her something to do.” Rhaenys startles. “Oh, who is going to inherit House Manderly? Wylla or Wynafryd?”

“Default first to unmarried ladies, then to married ladies with spare heirs? And if no spare heirs exist, start combining houses into cadet branches?”

“Ah, you hardly need a Hand at all.”

Shireen smiles, quick and faint. “No, I need you. Even when Ae…when _Aemon_ and I were discussing the future,” and they both flinch at Aemon’s name, “we wanted you as Hand. We trusted you above all others to help protect our child’s rule.” Shireen pauses. Then she chokes on a sob and hides her face in her hands. “Oh, I was so angry at him, and he died with me angry at him!” Her shoulders shake. “We never got to fix things, I wanted to fix things! I never wanted him to die! I could’ve loved him!”

Rhaenys collects Shireen into a hug. “I know,” she shushes her. “I know.” Shireen sobs about her regrets, her fears, her terror that the child in her stomach will die and take the very last bit of Aemon with it. Rhaenys kisses her cheek. “If my Jena survived—oh gods, what’s the list of the terrible events she survived? Two wars, an assassination attempt, me falling a thousand feet into the sea, endless stress over my foolhardy brother and his stubborn wife.” Shireen sniffles and coughs a laugh. “If Jena survived all of _that,_ then your child shall have a blissful pregnancy.”

“You must tell me that every day, I fear I shall go mad.”

“I’ll do my best. But I won’t be able to spend all my time in King’s Landing. The snow mages of Ibben and Far Mossovy are kind enough to help shove the snow away from the North, but Robb and I must repair our kingdom.”

“And you will.” Shireen squeezes her tight. “We can take our time. Time is all we have now.”

* * *

“A woman hasn’t ruled House Stark in over eight thousand years.”

“Then Aliandra Stark shall be the first, just as I was the first true water witch in over one thousand.”

Robb smiles at Rhaenys. They are lying in bed, propped up by many pillows. Jena nurses at Rhaenys’s breast, the fire crackles in the hearth, Meera’s made them her crannogmen style herbal tea which banishes the lingering cold from Rhaenys’s hands…all is calm and gentle. Soft like the furs and the sheets and Jena’s little body. Robb carefully wraps an arm over Rhaenys and Jena. “The Primrose of Winterfell, Lady Stark. The first ruling lady in her own right. Da would be proud.”

Rhaenys can see it, just as she’s seen it before. “She will ride through the Northern woods with primroses in her hair, on a great direwolf the color of our houses.”

Robb leans down to kiss Jena’s little forehead. “And what of our other children?”

“If Shireen’s child is a boy, then Jena shall be Queen Jena where Jena Dondarrion never got to be. If a girl, then our Beron shall be the first King Beron since the Kings of Winter.” He nods and mentions how at least one of their children is sure to have a good spouse, as any child of Shireen and Aemon’s will be a joy. “We also must decide on Alia’s future husband,” Rhaenys tells Robb. He makes a face and she laughs softly. “I know, I don’t relish giving her hand away when she is still playing with dolls. But she is to be the first ever Lady Stark of Winterfell in her own right, and I want the perfect husband for her.”

Robb rests his chin in his right hand. With his left he plays with Rhaenys’s hair. “He must be entirely loyal, with a strong Northern family but no ambitions towards usurping Winterfell for himself…”

“Wyn and Ben have—had—their Willem, and Randa and Theomore their little Theoden.” Rhaenys twists her lips. “Both would be fine, but Manderlys have enough trouble as it is right now choosing their next heir with nearly all their dead and Wyn widowed. We shouldn’t interfere with that mess.” Theomore lived, mercy of mercies, as did Alys’s husband Daryn. Very few other men can claim such luck; the rest of Rhaenys’s ladies are widows and orphans.

“Maybe if Sansa’s child is a boy, but I don’t want to steal her heir from her and the Whitestarks are a young house even with their lineage. Alia is too old for a Whitestark child anyway.”

“Alys and Daryn have no children yet so they’re out too.”

They are quiet for a while. Then Robb asks, “How about one of Harrion and Ysabel’s boys? They have two living boys—I believe the younger boy’s name is Yoren?”

Yoren Karstark, a cheerful boy of three with his father’s grey eyes and his mother’s chestnut hair. Just about three years younger than Alia; just as Rhaenys is just about three years older than Robb. The Karstarks have always been loyal to the Starks, and his Royce lineage is impeccable. Perhaps he will be able to do runecraft as well when he grows older. She slowly nods. “He can foster at Winterfell when he is three-and-ten and come to know Alia. They can marry when he is six-and-ten, or perhaps eight-and-ten if it suits them to linger in their betrothal.” She sighs and rests against Robb’s side. “Oh gods, I want our girl to be happy. What if they hate each other?”

He kisses her temple. “Aye, they could. Or they could grow to love each other, as I love you.”

* * *

Monford drops to his knee. He takes both of Lysella’s hands, her dainty flesh hand and her carved metal hand. And he declares for all the hall to hear, “I never though I’d love again after I was made a widow and my children half-orphans. I thought I’d spend all the ages of my alone, and that my Monterys and Laena would have no comfort from a mother. Yet you have stolen my heart entirely, my lady princess, and that of my children. I am no Lord Paramount, I have no crown for you. But if you would have me, I would offer all the tides in the sea to be your carriage, and all the flowers on Driftmark to be your cloak.” He kisses her hands and says, “I love you. Would you do me the honor of being my bride?”

Lysella beams like the summer sun, absolutely radiant with love and joy. “Of course I would, my darling. How foolish of you to ever doubt my answer.”

Then he stands and sweeps her into his arms. Lysella laughs, and he gives her a twirl. Everyone cheers and claps for them, and Rhaenys wipes at her eyes. Oh, she can see their marriage now, with the Narrow Sea winds sweeping over Driftmark and flowers in Lysella’s hair to trail down over her arm. Anemones, of course, and thistles, lilies, fresh white roses—a wedding fit for a princess and her lord. Monterys and Laena crowd around the two, asking if Lysella really will be their mother now. Lysella kisses their foreheads, and Rhaenys smiles. A wedding fit for a happy ending, she will do everything she can to give her sister that.

* * *

Ygritte swirls her fire whiskey in her cup. Her legs are finally healed thanks to Sarella, albeit scarred pink and white. And her long red hair is shorn short, either after it was grabbed by a wight and she cut it off herself with a dagger, or after she braided it as a love lock for Sigorn of the Thenn as a battle reward. There’s too many songs to keep track of, and Ygritte isn’t quick to sing songs of her own. “Not many clan leaders left o’ us Free Folk. Some of them are keen to have me be the next Queen-Beyond-the-Wall if need be, since I had a hand in killing a swath of Others.”

Shireen hums, swirling her own glass of lemon tea. Rhaenys sits between them, nursing Jena. Shireen smiles. “Congratulations, Queen Ygritte. I heard you may be marrying the Magnar of the Thenn?”

“Aye, Sigorn and I took each other by the Thenn laws and the Free Folk customs.” Ygritte smiles and it’s both sad and hopeful. “It’s all sorted out. You dinnae fear us once we’re past the Wall. We’re tired of fighting against the South.”

“The Wall will have to be dug out of the snow regardless. I admit though, I don’t see the point of the Wall or the Night’s Watch standing anymore.”

“There still be Others who turned tail from the battle. But we know how to kill ‘em, and they know to fear death.” Ygritte looks at nothing. “If I am to be a queen, suppose I make one of those treaties with you? Do you…” her gaze lowers, “do you think we can end this fight between us? So many have died, it’s foolishness to keep fighting over the right to kneel or not.”

Rhaenys squeezes Ygritte’s hand. “I think we can forge a friendship. I already think you a friend, Ygritte.”

“Even with what happened?” Aemon’s ghost hangs over them, and the ghost of his love for her. Ygritte has never spoken of it to either Rhaenys or Shireen, nor of any regrets about it. And from what Rhaenys’s heard, she and Sigorn are a match forged in dragonfire, locked together always arguing and bantering.

Shireen and Ygritte stare at each other, then Shireen nods. She takes Ygritte’s other hand. “Life is short and filled with pain. I’d like to keep the allies I have left…and it wouldn’t hurt to have another friend one day.” They toast each other, fire whiskey to lemon tea. Jena even throws up a little arm and they laugh at the babe.

Ygritte looks out the window. The snows are already lessening, the air more like autumn than winter. Rhaenys is glad for it. She misses spring, and the promise of life and living. “The Lands of Always Winter must be frozen solid now, even with this thaw. We may have to stay this side o’ the Wall anyway until it clears. You think that’ll be a problem?”

Most of the men who hated the Free Folk on sight are dead, and the survivors are more friendly to them. How can they not be, after the Battle for the Dawn they faced together? “We’ll figure it out.” Rhaenys stands. “Let’s go outside. Meera likes to take her tea out there, says the wind is good for us since it clears away the Neck’s miasmas? I shan’t see either of you two die to foul air before we can fix up our queendoms.”

* * *

Rhaenys shifts her weight between her legs and clenches her skirts to keep her hands still. The ship edges ever closer to the dock, she can already see the faces of the people onboard.

“MAMA!”

The ship docks and a little girl of six runs headlong down the ramp. Rhaenys runs towards her, before falling to her knees and spreading her arms wide. “ALIA!”

Alia throws herself into Rhaenys embrace and cries. Beron and Geralt toddle as fast as Catelyn and Lady Gwyn will let them, and then they too join their sister in Rhaenys’s arms. “Oh, my little girl! My little boys! I’ve missed you so much!”

“Mama!” they cry. Jena yells from Robb’s arms, furious that she is outside in the sunlight with all these crying people around her. Alia wipes her eyes, then gasps. “Mama! It’s a baby!”

“It’s your sister,” Rhaenys says. Robb sits down next to them and shows off little Jena to her siblings. Beron and Geralt pat their little hands on her swaddling, babbling about babes. Alia stares down at her little sister with wide heather eyes. “Her name is Jena. Are you excited to have a sister?”

“Yes. Girls are more fun than boys!” And Rhaenys and Robb laugh, they laugh until a shadow specter of fear is finally banished and they are free to be a family again.

Together they shall be. And Rhaenys will kill whoever tries and force them apart again.

* * *

“What will you name him?” Rhaenys asks. Sansa and Domeric’s son is but a day old and already has a head full of red hair. Perhaps the Whitestarks should be known as the Redstarks, if Sansa’s looks dominate their family line.

Sansa smiles up at her. Exhausted and frail, she still glows with excitement for her firstborn. “Brandon.”

* * *

“Renly is afraid he and Jocelyn won’t be able to have children. I kept reminding him that Jocelyn comes from House Penrose and they’ve never had issues with fertility. And even if he has but one daughter, that daughter shall be Lady Baratheon in her own right.”

Rhaenys massages Shireen’s back. She is in her confinement chambers, as the babe shall be born at the end of a fortnight by the midwife’s reckoning. Shireen ought to be worried about collecting enough nappy cloths for her infant, or about what kind of hatchlings Dreamfyre and her Yi Tish mate will create. Not about her uncle’s marriage bed!

“What exactly does he fear? Did the Citadel cut off his cock when he first entered its halls?”

“…oh, he probably told me this in confidence, can you keep a secret?” Rhaenys just raises her eyebrows and Shireen snorts. Then she confesses, “Renly prefers the attentions of…the like and same. Not of the opposite and complementary. Thankfully Jocelyn’s cousin Ethan is of the same nature and they’ve figured out a balance that works for all three. But he fears this will prevent him from being a good father to any children he has, and that fear then ends up poisoning his…nerve in procreation.”

“Ah. That would give anyone concern.” Rhaenys then shrugs. “Uncle Vis and Qarl are as bound to each other as they are bound to Aunt Asha. And they are marvelous parents to Duyen, because they trust each other and rely on each other and do the absolute best they can to raise her. If Renly can trust and rely on Jocelyn the same, he has nothing to fear.”

Shireen groans as Rhaenys works out a knot in her back. “Mind telling him that yourself? I would rather give birth this instant than try and persuade him and his stubbornness.”

“Ah, but you are so well acquainted with the Baratheon strain of stubbornness.”

* * *

Robb awakens with a gasp. Then he curls into Rhaenys’s chest, his face against her shoulder, and sobs.

Rhaenys rocks him, whispers soothing lullabies and meaningless words. This time of year is always the worst; she’s already woken him up at the hour of the wolf with nightmares three times this week.

His sobs take a long time to taper off. She doesn’t let go for a single second, not even when they fall back asleep.

* * *

Rhaenys tries not to flinch as she enters the sea. Even with the warmth of early spring warming her skin, the water is a frigid as the dead of winter. But she wades out until she is half-submerged. Then she holds out the oil-slick pearl and waits.

Soon, the mermaid emerges. The sunlight does strange tricks on her moonglow skin, reminding her of Dreamfyre’s scales. She smiles with her razor teeth. “Hail, Rhaenys Lady.” Her unearthly voice is sharp like knives on silk and sends shivers down Rhaenys’s spine. But her High Valyrian is impeccable. “What does the Lady Stark command of me?”

“Hail, Nethraille Queen.” Rhaenys smiles in return. “I come to beg for trade and treaties. I bring a gift,” and she offers the pearl.

“Be welcome at my table.” The mermaid queen pulls her beneath the waves. When Rhaenys returns the next day, her hair is thick with sea salt and her skin slick with seaweed slime. She is laden down with pearls and sea stones of every shape and color glinting dark beneath the sun; a contract signed and sealed in a language perhaps only Robb may understand; and with the inexplicable craving for raw salmon.

Alas, the craving never does disappear, but thankfully White Harbor’s trade routes are a lot more…interesting.

* * *

“This is preposterous!” The archmaesters assembled around the table look ready to explode into a fine red mist. “No woman has ever step foot within the Citadel for thousands of years, and yet you demand that we allow female acolytes!”

Rhaenys and Shireen nod. Sarella stands at Rhaenys’s side, entirely too amused. Shireen says in her demure voice, “The winds of change blow across all Westeros, not merely the laws of inheritance. With so many lives lost, it is up to women to help renew the kingdom.”

An archmaester sneers, “Ask Maester Alleras about the history of the Citadel, Your Grace. Let him explain why this is folly!”

Rhaenys grins at Sarella. “Maester, if you will.”

Sarella stands up directly on the table in the middle of the maesters. Then she drops her smallclothes and lifts her robes.

The screams of anguish and horror from the archmaesters is said to have echoed around all the Crownlands.

* * *

Daenerys smiles at the toddler doing his best to walk towards her. She holds her arms out from her wheeled chair. “That’s it sweetling, Mama is here.”

Jena, about nine moons older than her cousin, also encourages Desmond to walk as she has just mastered it. Rhaenys giggles as her littlest daughter says, “No run! Run hurts!” Jena pats her bottom as if to warn Desmond of future pain and agony.

Desmond does indeed trip and fall onto his bottom, but he just giggles and reaches up for her. Rhaenys hefts Desmond into Daenerys’s arms and Daenerys kisses his cheek. “You’ll get the hang of it sweetling, just a few more tries!”

To look at them, one would think Desmond came immaculate from Daenerys’s body. And indeed his little elfin features match Daenerys’s, his white blonde hair and deep blue eyes as Valyrian as Lysella’s children. Rhaenys’s smile softens and saddens. Poor Sharra Arryn, who lost her brother Jonnel, her estranged husband Harry, and her great love Mya Stone at the Battle for the Dawn. She died in childbed for this giggling boy, her body as broken as her heart. And through her Arryn blood the Vale has its little heir.

Desmond will never know his birth mother’s grief, only his heart mother’s tender joy and love. And that is all anyone can ask for.

* * *

“Mama,” Alia says from Rhaenys’s hip, “the castle is pretty! They fixed the windows!”

“Is it as pretty as Winterfell? Or Sunspear?”

“Hmm…maybe not as pretty as those two. But I still like it.”

The River Keep rises over Kings Landing. It is made of pale red and white stone, with three curtain walls and a river-fed moat defending the keep, five tall slender towers and ten squat drum towers, and an overall circular design. Thanks to magic, many aqueducts of clear clean water cut through Kings Landing. Many of them also lead to the River Keep, named as it is guarded by the mouth of the redirected Blackwater Rush on all sides. The mermaids and naiads that live in those waters have sworn their allegiance to the River Keep in return for representation of their needs in the Small Council. Archmaester Marwyn makes for a very…enthusiastic Master of Magic, and so far there has been little conflict between the Seven Kingdoms and the fey beings that now have returned to the earth. Even the incident between the children of the forest and the mountain vale fairies never grew into major bloodshed.

All of Kings Landing smells of clean water, horses from merchants and the thousands of trees replanted all around and throughout the city. Many of them have green leaves, although some are ruby red—thanks to Edwin, throughout all of Westeros grows weirwood trees, even in Dorne. And Rhaenys can hear children playing in the green spaces and the creeks where the new trees grow strong and sturdy for spring.

Rhaenys leads Alia inside to the throne room. They curtsy, and Rhaenys admires how her little girl of eight is nearly a lady. Little Queen Nessa smiles and waves from Shireen’s lap. Shireen smiles at them as well. “Was your journey well, my ladies?”

“Yes, Aunt Shireen.” Alia looks at Rhaenys for permission and she nods. Then she pulls out a dragon egg the color of fire opal, already cracking and ready to hatch. “We bought Nessa a present!” She carefully places the egg in Nessa’s hands. And Nessa giggles and hugs it close. “Yay, she likes it!”

“Pwetty,” Nessa says with her little milk teeth finally all grown in. She will be two namedays soon, and Rhaenys already has a host of festivities planned for their little May Queen.

Nessa and Alia coo over the dragon egg. Rhaenys is the one to see the genuine relief in Shireen’s eyes. Oh, their inheritance law reforms are set in stone, with even the Citadel accepting female acolytes. And the Common Houses around Westeros that bring their grievances and requests directly to Shireen’s council accept women too. Yet, all of that can change as quickly as the seasons. A bad drought one year, a plague the next, and a dynasty with a ruling queen topples like a stack of playing cards.

However, if Nessa is a dragon rider, none can ever dare claim that she cannot rule in her own right. And Rhaenys will see Aemon and Shireen’s daughter rule a long and prosperous reign alongside Rhaenys and Robb’s son.

* * *

Rosario’s wedding to Prince Ali of the Moraqi Empire is a spectacle, as befitting the marriage of the heir to Sunspear to an Essosi prince. Arianne has banned pigeon pies for a thousand leagues from her daughter’s wedding. But there is saffron rice, and stuffed grape leaves, and spiced Moraqi lamb kebabs and shawarma. And mangoes, there are so many mangoes, Rhaenys cannot get enough mangoes.

Alia groans and sits back in her seat. All of her children do, even dear Geralt who is the absolute soul of manners. Rhaenys smiles at them. “Oh no, you’re all heavy with food babies!” Geralt pats Jena’s stomach and she laughs about having a food baby. “How will any of you dance if you’re as heavy as a woman with child?” Lysella, pregnant with her second child with Monford, flicks pear slices at Rhaenys and her children giggle into their hands.

Beron looks up at her with guileless violet eyes. “Auntie Sella has a baby in her tummy. We can dance together and be matching!”

Lysella smiles and winks at him. “Oh, how can I say no to that little face? But maybe you should dance with Nessa first, and Doreza.”

“Do they have babies too?”

The adults at the table laugh. Rosario smiles at Rhaenys and asks what kind of dancing she did at her wedding with Robb, as Rosario was busy causing disturbances with her cousins to notice. Rhaenys tells them about the songs—Alysanne, Six Maids in a Pool, Iron Lances, Merry Meria—and how she was so nervous to dance with Robb that she kept tripping over herself. Alia snorts. “That’s silly, Mama. Everyone knows how you and Papa dance together all the time!”

Rhaenys pinches Alia’s cheek. Then she tells Rosario, “If your mother hasn’t told you this already, then here’s some of my advice: keep good humor in your marriage, and be honest about your wants and feelings. If you and Prince Ali can have a marriage based on honesty and trust, not even the end of the world can bring you apart.”

* * *

Rhaenys peeks her head through the door. “I heard that it was someone’s nameday?”

“Rhae!” Baelor and Maegelle look up at her from the floor and smile. They’re doing their best to assemble a scale model of the Eyrie out of matchsticks and bits of clay. Rhaenys can’t help but smile; her children did the same thing at their age.

Rhaenys sits down next to them. Maegelle leans against her side and looks up at her with her pretty indigo eyes. Both she and Baelor are entirely Valyrian in appearance, and they look so much like younger versions of Visenya and Rhaegar that Rhaenys’s heart aches. Maegelle smiles with deep dimples in her cheeks. “It’s both our namedays, we’re not just someone. We’re sometwo.”

“Oh, forgive my mistake, my lady.” Rhaenys pokes her nose. Then she pulls out her sack of presents. “I have gifts from Sella, Dany and Shireen. Shall we open them now or at your nameday dinner.”

“Is it alright if we open them now? Please?” Baelor bats his eyes at her. “Septa Avella says that it’s very good to give charity to those who have none, so we can see what presents we can give to the orphanage.”

Rhaenys gives him a sad smile. “These are your gifts, Baelor. It’s alright to keep all of them.”

“But it’s goodly to give.”

Baelor shall be High Septon one day. And if the reforms at the Citadel finish in time, Maegelle shall be an archmaester. She hopes they will have joy in these roles, joy and peace and gentle quiet lives. But she cannot deny them simple luxuries as nameday gifts. “How about this then. You keep these gifts, and then tomorrow we and Cousin Arianne can go to the markets and select many gifts for the orphanage.” She grins. “We can even ride sand steeds there.”

Baelor and Maegelle look up at her with their wide eyes, so sweet and loving. Rhaenys prays those eyes remain the same always. And that when they are old enough to know why Rhaenys has denied their life paths a chance for marriage and children…well, she prays they at least keep the sweetness for their family’s sake.

* * *

Rhaenys walks arm and arm with Robb in Winterfell’s glasshouse devoted to exotic flowers and butterflies. Ahead of them Alia is teaching Jena and Cathryn about all the different kinds of roses that can grow in Westerosi soil, while Jena asks her why are roses and daisies different and why to roses grow thorns and why do they call Aunt Margaery the Golden Rose if her daughter Daenella is a Bronze Rose and why aren’t her sons Lenn and Ryan also roses…Jena is curious and Alia has an answer for everything.

They make quite the pair. Alia’s red hair curls in ringlets free down her back and her heather eyes seem to glow against her rich olive skin. Jena’s silver-gold hair is in her preferred twin braids, and her black eyes stand out against her Northern complexion. Not quite night and day, as they share the same smiles and giggles and water magic. And dear Cathryn with her strawberry blonde hair and grey eyes and thousands of freckles is the perfect balance to their trio. Two very fine Ladies Stark and Lady Lannister they shall make. Perhaps with Jason and Jena’s future marriage—already the two are mischievous playmates whenever they visit Casterly Rock, getting into every nook and cranny!—perhaps Jaime and Elia’s ghosts can rest easily.

It helps of course that Alia is one of the brightest girls in Westeros, able to speak half a dozen language and read a full dozen. She is light-hearted and cheerful as well, while Jena is bold and fearless and a touch imperious, and Cathryn is pure sweetness and adventure. Whenever Rosario visits to take the three on trips to the Free Cities, they always return with stories of glittering bazaars and haggling with pirates and trying their hand at various sword fights. Rhaenys cannot imagine a better childhood for her daughters as they grow up and older.

Beron and Geralt play in a pond with their cousins, Sansa’s son Brandon and Edwin’s daughter Brandis. Every Stark line has a child with a name starting with B, it seems, and the names always give their grandmother Catelyn reason to sigh wistfully and leave candles in the crypt. Yoren is with them too, in search of a fine frog to show Alia. Rosario and Luceryn gossip with their cousins Monterys, Laena, and Corlys. Desmond tries to catch butterflies with Daenella to give to his mother, who sits in her wheelchair talking with Arianne, Lysella and Margaery. Lysella’s little Saera sits in her lap, as does Ryan on Margaery’s lap.

Beron and Geralt are also quite the pair, the very best of Rhaenys and Robb mixed together. Beron has the Tully build, with dark hair curling at his ears and bright violet eyes in a cheerfully open and wide face. Geralt is more delicate, nearly a waif with fine features and pale lavender eyes and silver hair to his shoulders. Her younger son is shier too, and impeccably polite and well-mannered, while his older twin is as rowdy as three boys his age put together. But despite the greater differences between them as compared to Alia and Jena, her boys are two peas in a pod, with Beron bringing Geralt out of his shell and Geralt convincing Beron to take things slower. Robb says that Beron has a touch of the wolfblood in him, which hopefully will develop in a fierce sense of self and duty. Rhaenys wonders what sort of wolfblood Geralt may have, or perhaps it is dragonblood. Either way, water magic fills their veins too, her gift to all her children.

Such peace in these glasshouses, with Winterfell like a mirage from beyond the glass. A butterfly lands on Robb’s ear and she giggles. “Like a kiss from a fairy, have you a wish?”

“A wish to walk with you through these gardens forever.” Rhaenys blushes. Years and years into their marriage, and he still makes her heart soar with just a look. Robb kisses her cheek and they stop by a ditch filled with water. The gardeners plan to add water lilies here, a gift from Leng. Perhaps Alia can be the Primrose of Winterfell and Jena the Water Lily, if those titles still hold any meaning.

“If we walk here forever, we’ll miss Arya and Brienne and the Krakens of Harlaw. They should be sailing in tomorrow to White Harbor, or that’s what Wylla said. I wonder what stories they have of the far southern edge of Sothoryos, when Arya last wrote she said that poor Duyen tried to raise a saber-tooth cheetah as a housecat.” It will be nice to have more branches of her family back in Westeros. Arya and Brienne might’ve followed in Viserys, Asha and Qarl’s footsteps and adopted a child of their own.

Robb grins at her. “That won’t do. Maybe a wish that spring will last forever.”

“You don’t want a long summer?” Summer is coming, if not in the next year than the one after. The highland meadows will be bright green and the River Keep shall grow over with summer ivy and Dorne shall turn over its desert rice. And the ghosts of the brave souls who saved Winterfell from a dread and dark fate shall have their graves filled with fresh summer grass. She imagines Aemon with a crown of grass, and Oberyn ripping out handfuls from the earth to throw at his daughters to make them laugh. Dreams of spring for the coming summer, Catelyn would say.

She stares into the water and sees all this and so much more. Alia and her direwolf pup Bodi growing tall and strong beneath the shade of the godswood as the North blooms around them. Jena spinning flax into gold to adorn her dragon Skydancer with and singing to a pride of lions at her feet. Beron in a crown of dragonglass bowing over Nessa’s hand while his own direwolf pup Sona sniffs at Nessa’s dragon Dawnbreak and storms break into rainbow fragments over the sea…

Her vision grows clearer, and she sees the silver-haired man who has haunted the edges of her dreams ever since she sailed to the Rhoyne. A tall man yes, but lithe, with his silver hair framing his gentle face. His left hand rests on his sword’s pommel and his right holds a dragon egg the color of the morning mist over Winterfell. He turns so that she may see a sliver of his face through his hair. The soft edge of his cheek, the light olive of his skin, the pale violet of his eyes—

Pale lavender eyes in a face she knows in her heart. The man smiles at her and then he is just a reflection in the pool again. A reflection of her, in her son Geralt.

Geralt is the silver-haired man. Rhaenys’s breath leaves her in a rush. And he will grow to be a monster slayer, savior of innocents from those who would seek to destroy them. She turns her head to see Beron and Geralt giggling over some frogs, patting their hands into the sodden earth. Beron shall be a king one day, and Geralt a knight. A knight like no other, a silver sword on his back and river water at his fingertips.

“Sweetlings,” she calls out to them. They run to her, holding a poor frog between them and beaming with their rosy cheeks. Her boys, so sweet and little now, to grow into tall proud men. Rhaenys’s heart breaks to imagine her little boys growing up, but she cannot wait to see the men they shall become. “Could you sing the river song for me and your father?” she asks them. “It’s very lonely to sing it by myself all this time.”

They nod their heads. She rests one hand on Beron’s brown curls, the other on Geralt’s silver waves. Geralt asks, “Who taught you the song, Mama? Did Auntie Arianne teach you?”

Rhaenys smiles at them. “Not quite. My own mama taught it to me, and her mama before her, all the way back for thousands of year.”

They will know her song, they and Alia and Jena. As many children in the world as possible, and as many knights wielding silver-swords as possible. Rhaenys imagines a future full of them, as wide and sparkling as a river beneath the dawn. And she imagines herself and Robb standing behind them, helping pave the way to that distant horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Westeros is forever changed in this AU on account of the Battle for the Dawn. Magic has returned and is here to stay permanently with permanent effects. Trade between the Known World is booming and imperialist thoughts are present but muted due to each country holding their own in trade and treaties and magic. Women are more equal to men in society, with equal inheritance and women being able to own land and enter the Citadel and take part in the Commons House (aka the House of Commons in Parliament). At some point Westeros will transition from an absolute monarchy to a parliamentary monarchy with democratic voting by its citizens. It’ll be interesting to hypothesize how that’ll work in a high fantasy setting, especially since a lot of fantastic and magical creatures have human and human-like intelligence. Maybe a dragon will one day run for Prime Minister lol
> 
> Rhaenys and Robb lived! As did their children! And the final chapter of this odyssey will feature one of them!  
> I hope you liked this chapter! It’s rather melancholic for me now that my story is at an end, but I’m glad I was able to finish it!


	22. The Song, Revisited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do not stand at my grave and weep
> 
> I am not there. I do not sleep.
> 
> I am a thousand winds that blow.
> 
> I am the diamond glints on snow.
> 
> I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
> 
> I am the gentle autumn rain.
> 
> When you awaken in the morning’s hush
> 
> I am the swift uplifting rush
> 
> Of quiet birds in circled flight.
> 
> I am the soft stars that shine at night.
> 
> Do not stand at my grave and cry;
> 
> I am not there. I did not die. (“Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep” by Mary Elizabeth Frye)

_By the Blood of Nymeria and Rhaenyra: The Legacy of the third Rhaenys Targaryen_ , by Archamester Maegelle Targaryen

…if one were to summarize the legacy of Lady Rhaenys Stark, Princess Targaryen and Witch Hand of Westeros, a decent summarization would be “magic and might:” Her very epithet of Witch Hand, and Lady Witch of Winterfell, cemented her status as a powerful magic-wielder equal or greater than her status as a royal princess and highborn noblewoman. The dozens of rivers carved into the earth of Westeros and Essos, as well as the treaties Lady Rhaenys made with mermaid queens and seelie emperors, seem more suited to fable than fact. Yes, as surely as the River Keep rises over the mouth of the Blackwater Bay, the rivers in the North and Dorne glitter with gold.

She made strategic decisions, such as placing the former Queen Lyanna’s youngest children into the care of the Faith and the Citadel so that they may serve the realm without threat of being used and abused for their blood. High Septon Baelor proved himself to be a radical, holding multiple Councils of Kings Landing to reexamine and reform the lengthy and oftentimes contradicting scriptures of the Faith. Under his guidance, and through much reluctance and resistance from more conservative septons and septas, the laws of Westeros were changed. By the time of this text’s writing, it is no longer a mortal sin nor an illegal crime for a man to lie with a man, nor a woman to lie with a woman, nor for anyone to lie with someone who is dual-sexed or third-sexed. And while many couples and triads before this time had been an open secret—the Krakens at Harlaw were a famous triad of Lord Viserys Targaryen, Lady Asha Greyjoiy Harlaw and Lord Qarl Harlaw, and were Lady Rhaenys’s uncles and aunt as well as her confidants—now there is no need for a secret at all. The author of this book is known in some circles for research about the various forms of magic and redesigning the Westerosi maps of the Known World to include the Jade and Opal Seas as well as Nothorsos and Antartos—and that is all shall be written on that, to remain humble.

Lady Rhaenys and her husband Lord Robb Stark, he himself an accomplished magic-wielder as his runecraft was integral to the combined forces of humanity winning in the Battle of the Dawn, established themselves primarily in the North at Winterfell. Even when Rhaenys was the Witch Hand for Queen Mother Shireen Stormbreak and Queen Nessa I Targaryen, she flew between Winterfell and the River Keep atop her loyal dragon Mooncatcher, sometimes with her ruling queens alongside her on their own dragons. And at Winterfell they raised their children who themselves are entwined in their mother’s legacy and legacies of their own.

Aliandra Stark, the first ruling Lady Stark of Winterfell in her own right, was a bright and forward-thinking woman and worthy successor to her parents’ unrivaled reign of prosperity. She modeled her presentation to the smallfolk on the Witch Queen Bodi of eons past. The sight of Lady Aliandra riding atop her direwolf Bodi with a Valyrian steel spear in one hand and a distaff bundled with primroses in the other was both ceremonial and practical. Ceremonial in that she invoked imagery of the Witch Queen and of the Queen of the May from springtime revelry, therefore invoking the symbols of a rebirth of spring and prosperity to the North as continued from her parents’ rule. And practical in that Lady Aliandra was extremely skilled in combat with both spear and sword, and developed her water-witching into a branch of magic now known and studied as floracraft. Wherever Lady Aliandra went, flowers and herbs sprouted at her will. The four-crop rotation system developed by the Green Glass Guild developed beneath Lady Aliandra’s direction into a seven-crop system, with new crops such as tomatoes and blue yams from overseas, and the North never suffered a famine under her rule. And with the efforts of her husband Lord Yoren Karstark; her daughter and successor Lady Reina Stark and Lady Reina’s husband Lord Wylliam Manderly, the Starks of Winterfell are famous to this day for their proficiency in floracraft and direwolf husbandry.

Aliandra’s sister Jena, Lady Lannister, was also renowned for her witchcraft albeit in a different vein. She worked with other water witches to rejuvenate the Westerlands’ soil and waterways as much of the land had been hollowed out and spoiled by generations of mining. While the Lannisters built their wealth on gold, Lady Jena and her husband Lord Jason had other plans. Lord Jason, a man as clever as his father but with twice the boldness, made perfect business partners with Lady Jena, whose mastery of language and culture stemming from her childhood trips to Essos rivaled that of imperial ambassadors. Lannisport, by virtue of facing the Sunset Sea and having the Lannisters of Castery Rock’s ventures, became the gateway to Nothorsos and Antartos. Lady Jena was never an official princess but she was the daughter, sister and cousin to royalty, and became House Targaryen’s official voice in trade deals with the Yuztelan Empire; the Hauden Confederacy; and the City States of the Coral Coast. If nothing else, were it not for Lady Jena’s love for xocolate, perhaps none of Westeros would have xocolate on their tables to this day. It is said that all the Lannisters now, from the old Lord and Lady down to the young twins Sers Tyland and Johanna commanding the Royal Army, have a family tradition of wrapping xocolate eggs with gold foil and hiding them around Casterly Rock to celebrate their birthdays.

King Beron, born a Lord at Winterfell, and Queen Nessa I are perhaps known best for having a tumultuous romance that inspired a hundred ballads and drinking songs. “The Dragon Queen and the Wild Wolf” is the most famous, having been translated into at least four different languages and a mummer’s play. And indeed, the grand tale of two charismatic, head-strong and passionate personalities clashing only to reconcile ands then clash again as if in a dance, is an appealing one. However, the political minds behind that romance is often overlooked. King Beron grew up at his parents’ knee and Queen Nessa I at her mother’s and aunt’s; foolishness and vainglory was never tolerated in their upbringing. As theirs would be seen as the reign to bring in a new era of peace after the terrible Battle for the Dawn that killed the majority of Westeros’s men and after Rhaenyra’s Redemption where King Rhaegar I was deposed and fed to dragons—their reign had much to live up to. And they both stepped up to the challenge with eagerness tempered by an impeccable education. One may theorize the reason the Queen and King had so many passionate arguments in both public and private was a result of needing to have the perfect reign and live up to all of Westeros’s expectations. But they did their best, and when their eldest child King Daeron succeeded them on the throne with his wife Lady Olyvia Tyrell, they had prevented a war between the last Blackfyres and the Unseelie King; and no major plagues or famines struck the Seven Kingdoms. For that alone, their reign is remembered as a successful one.

Finally, there cannot be any discussion about Lady Rhaenys’s legacy without mentioning Ser Geralt Stark, the Silver Sword of Westeros. The Wanderer, the Wayfarer, the White Wolf—he has many titles all around the Known World. When the dread sorcerer Haemon Blackfyre attacked Lady Rhaenys to curse her and all her magic, Geralt pushed her out of the way and himself bore the curse. Then he went on his legendary seven-year journey from Essos to Sothoryos; from Ulthos to Nothorsos; from all four corners of the Known World to the pit of the world. The songs sing of how he killed a million monsters on his way with his legendary sword: a sword of Lady Rhaenys and Lord Stark’s design, silver melded with Valyrian steel and carved with protective dragonglass runes. He used this silver sword as the Silver Sword alongside his companions: the famed Golden Kraken Duyen Harlaw and Geralt’s adopted cousin; the dual-sexed bard Iseul of the Seungwol Kingdom; and explorer Seamus McThembu of the Emerald Isles. His letters home to Westeros included paintings, songbooks, official correspondence from far flung lands and their leaders; and his personal maps that were used to help modify Westeros’s own official maps. And famous at the center of Antartos where compasses spin uselessly and the sun is forever in eclipse, the Silver Sword made his famous battle against the Unseelie King who sought to finish what the Night King started. He brought back the Unseelie King’s head to the river Rhoyne where he finally was freed of his curse; he brought back the King’s sword to Queen Nessa I and King Beron to melt down and make into more silver swords; and he brought back his true love Iseul for Lady Rhaenys’s approval. He trained the next generation of Silver Swords that now form a special force in the Royal Armies and protect the innocent from fell creatures. It’s said that to this day he travels throughout Westeros and the Known World killing monsters with his partner Iseul and their children Chaena and Soran.

All four of Lady Rhaenys’s children are legends, and their legend mixed with Lady Rhaenys’s until a family of flesh and blood becomes a dynasty of song and myth. It can be hard to separate the mythos from the man, especially as the years pass and more and more of their true personalities fade beneath the stars of their fame. Thankfully, the author counts Lady Rhaenys as a sister and a mother where the former Queen Lyanna could not be. And the author can confirm that if there ever was a family who deserved peace, it would be that of the Lord and Lady Witch of Winterfell…

* * *

Rhaenys smiles and gently sets the book aside. “What do you think?” she asks. “It’s not every day someone writes a book about you and your family.”

Her great-grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren giggle amongst themselves. So many little faces of different colors and shapes, some with the Stark look and some with the Martell look and some with the Yuztelan look. And little Rhaelyne Targaryen with her silver-gold hair and bright purple eyes, who always begs her Gramma for a story. Rhaenys has no favorites—how can she, when she adores each and every member of her family? But she has an extra soft spot for Rhaelyne as she is a cuddler, and Rhaenys is built for cuddling now.

Thankfully her granddaughter Reina rides Mooncatcher now as Rhaenys can’t. No, at the age of a hundred, Rhaenys can do little more than sit in her chair and read with her magnifying glasses, or toddle alongside a grandchild or great-grandchild with her arm in theirs. Sometimes she forgets how much time has passed since her year of birth, and startles herself to see the printing press in Winter’s Heart—sometimes she forgets the old winter town has a proper city name!

“Grandmama, let me help you.” It’s Renfri who helps her up—the daughter of Geralt and Iseul’s Soran. Yes, Soran married a Far Mossovich woman some years back, and Renfri decided to stay in Winterfell as the North’s Silver Sword. Rhaenys is glad for it, as she looks so much like her grandfather, her son…so much like herself and Robb…

Robb’s been gone for years now, it’ll be thirty in a couple more. A good death, warm in his bed with his head on Rhaenys’s heart and surrounded by all their family. So many people Rhaenys knows are gone along with him—Shireen, Viserys, Asha, Qarl, Wylla, Margaery, Daenerys, Lysella, Baelor, Nessa, _Beron_ …the lists go on. Most of her family has long since passed on for the seven heavens, and the crypts of Winterfell and the River Keep and Sunspear are swollen with names she can still place faces to. Rhaenys wonders if all water witches of her might linger for a century on the living world. They never did say now long Nymeria lived, and she was the last great water witch of her line until magic returned so many years ago. How many children did Nymeria bury? Rhaenys considers herself blessed to only have buried two.

“Grandmama?”

Rhaenys smiles, and with all the effort she has, she reaches up and pinches her great-granddaughter’s cheek. Renfri smiles and Rhaenys says, “That’s how we show our love in this family. Now, dear Renfri, tell me of your family from across the seas.”

Renfri has a bard’s voice, like her grandmother. Like Mother Cat who rests with the full honors of the Seven by both of her husband’s tombs. Rhaenys has already arranged for her funeral plans ten years ago, there won’t be any question: split her ashes between the North, the River Keep and the Mother Rhoyne. And have as many drinks as you can stand, and all the sweetmeats and haggis to be found. No more tears; Rhaenys has wept long enough and shan’t have her descendants weep for her either.

They stop by the Winter Knife. Rhaenys’s vision has turned to a pleasant haze when she peers farther than twenty paces ahead, but she can see well enough the children playing in the water and the heather growing along the riverbanks. Rhaelyne runs up to them, and her Summer Islander skin seems to glow in the sunlight. “Gramma, I caught a fish!”

“Well done, my darling.” Renfri helps her into yet another chair—there’s many chairs around Winterfell, just for Rhaenys—and Rhaenys laughs as Rhaelyne explains the adventures of her little fish. She first thought to catch it for dinner, but then she remembered that tonight shall be pork and fish isn’t pork. So then she brought the fish to a river naiad who turned the fish into twenty, and now there will indeed be fish for dinner alongside pork. Oh, to be young and in a world such as this where beings of river water live to multiply the bounty of the North. Rhaenys swears she can see that naiad curtsying at the edge of her vision. More curtsies for the Lady Witch. She shall go to the seven heavens honored; she hopes she is worthy of it.

Rhaenys’s smile softens. A Lady Witch without her Wolf Lord is a lonely one indeed. Robb is dead. Aemon and Lysella and Shireen and Sansa and Arya and Edwin and Branda are dead. Arianne and Rosario and Luceryn are dead. Maybe Visenya is dead. Her Beron is long dead along with Rickon, and she knows she shall never see Geralt again, nor perhaps even Jena. But Alia is here, calling for all the children. Yes, her darling daughter, her Primrose of Winterfell. She is more than enough. Alia comes to sit alongside them, with her lovely red hair streaked with silver-gold. Rhaenys reaches out to tuck one of Alia’s curls behind her ear. Renfri asks Rhaenys, “Shall I sing for you, Grandmama? Auntie?”

“Of course, my sweet. You have a voice as sweet as the Bard Princess herself,” and now it is Renfri’s turn to let her smile soften. Renfri sings a Mossovich song, then a Yi Tish song, then a Rhoynish song. And Rhaenys knows the words as she’s known them in her heart for decades. Alia does too. She whispers along with her daughter and great-granddaughter, “Where the north wind meets the sea, there’s a river full of memory. Sleep my darling, safe and sound, for in this river all is found.”

The river whispers along with them in its watery tune, and the sunlight refracts in the water and the heather and the red in Alia and Renfri’s hair. More come to join them, and Rhaenys scoots to make room for Rhaelyne, and Myriame, and Doran, and Selantha, and Rickard, and Laemon, so many little faces near and dear. The sunlight glows until their faces are refracted in the light and in her heart, and she is neither in her chair nor in her sickbed nor on her pyre. No, she in the sun and the water and the sound of the song. “Until the river’s finally crossed, you’ll feel the solid ground. You have to get a little lost, on your way, to being found…”

Mother smiles and takes Rhaenys’s hands in her own. How old Rhaenys’s hands are compared to her mother’s, until they aren’t, until they are the hands of a young woman setting off on her grand adventure. “Where the north wind meets the sea, there’s a mother full of memory.” Mama kisses her forehead. _“Come my darling, homeward bound.”_

Rhaenys stands, and reaches out, for behind Mama is Robb, as young and sweet as on their wedding day. And she is in her rainbow wedding dress like the Northern sky, and the sun refracts the glow of each gem. She spins for them, and Robb laughs and Mama smiles. Rhaenys stands at the banks of the river Rhoyne, but she looks back to where Alia scatters ashes in the water. Alia weeps like a little girl, and her own husband is also gone and cannot comfort her. But her sister and brother do, Alia leans against Geralt’s shoulder and Jena against hers and they make a space where Beron ought to be. Their children them comfort them in turn. All of Rhaenys’s children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren across the Known World comfort each other. And Rhaenys calls out to her darling children, her Primose and Water Lily and Silver Sword, “Do not stand at the river and cry. I am the river—I did not die.”

Alia wipes her eyes, and smiles at something her own daughter Reina says. Rhaenys lets that image of her once and always little girl smiling be her buoyancy, and she crosses over the river

and it’s as if all the sunlight that’s ever shone illuminates in her blood and in her soul

and Robb kisses her hands and leads her to their family across all the ages

and Rhaenys swings her little Rickon and not so little Beron into her arms

and Robb holds them close while Mama and her brothers and sisters laugh

_and all is lost, and all is found_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took your comments into consideration, and I wrote this as the epilogue to this story. I hope it lives up to the rest of Come My Darling, Homeward Bound, as this story has been the longest and greatest thing I’ve written both as fanfiction and as fiction in general. I’m sad to see it ended, but I’m glad that it has just as intended: Rhaenys and Robb happy and in love, with a legacy and family that shall last for generations.
> 
> It’s been an honor writing it for you all. I hope you enjoyed my story, and I hope you stay safe out there!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Pick a God and Find your Justice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25908934) by [Wintercameandwent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wintercameandwent/pseuds/Wintercameandwent)




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